


Find a Way to You

by Pennin_Ink



Series: The Swan Triad [3]
Category: Lebedínoye Ózero | Swan Lake, Sherlock (TV), The Swan Princess
Genre: Abduction, Devotion, Fantasy, Love, M/M, Magic, Physical Torture - nongraphic, Pining, Psychological Torture, Romance, Sex - nongraphic, Transformation, Written with assistance from the incomperaple Piplover, emotional torture, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 100,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennin_Ink/pseuds/Pennin_Ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock struggles to free himself from Moriarty's prison as John devotes every waking moment to finding the man he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

'Wakey, wakey Sherlock.' The voice was high and lilting, it had a vague Irish accent, possibly Dublin, but Sherlock's head pounded far too loudly to narrow it down properly. 'You definitely don't want to miss this.'  
  
Sherlock struggled to get his bearings. The surface beneath him was soft, crumbly and uneven. Dirt, then. Soil, by the feel of it. Vegetation as well. His ears were full of skritching, skittering, bird calls and the thousand other sounds that only ever meant 'forest'.  
  
'You can open your eyes, Sherlock. It's okay.' Young, too. Very young. Or at least he sounded very young.  
  
Sherlock struggled to prize open his eyelids. By the feel of the crust gluing his eyelashes together, he'd been asleep for quite some time. He tried to locate his last memory, and found he could recall nothing past getting into the car with Mycroft to return to Sussex.  
  
He managed to get his eyes open, and was relieved, if only slightly, to find that it was dark. Very little light pierced the thick canopy, but there was enough that he could make out the blurry shapes of a small man beside a larger one.  
  
'Oh good, you're awake. I was getting bored.' The voice came from the smaller man. He gestured to the larger man, who disappeared from Sherlock's field of vision. 'You're gonna love this. Well, no, I lie. You're going to really hate this. But eventually, and you can't tell me I'm wrong, you'll just have to be impressed. I mean, I've resurrected an entire  _science_  for you.' There was a brief pause in which Sherlock felt strong, rough hands slip under his knees and back, before the voice returned. It was lower this time, serious where it had been playful. 'And it is for you, Sherlock. All of it. It's for you, and it's for me, and it's for us.'  
  
The hands lifted him up in a bridal carry, and Sherlock tried to struggle, but his feeble attempts only made the arms tighten their hold.  
  
'Careful, Seb. He's a bit delicate at the moment.' Back to playful now, but with a dark undertone. 'But not for long.'  
  
Sherlock's head was clearing, his body was slowly returning to his control. He didn't struggle, he wasn't a fool. The last thing he needed was for this Seb person to drop him. Instead he waited.  
  
'It's not long now, Sherlock. Oh, just wait till you see what I've done. I've been so  _naughty_. You'll approve, one day. You'll love it.'  
  
'Who are you?' Sherlock really wished his voice were stronger.  
  
The small man froze. 'Oh. Right. You never found me, did you?' He sighed in disappointment. 'And you were so close, too! You had it right about the shoes, Sherlock. Carl had eczema. I couldn't risk anyone finding traces of the poisoned medicine in his shoelaces.'  
  
'You…killed…'  
  
'Yep. Little Jimmy's first game. That's my name, by the way. Jim Moriarty. I know you're clever enough to work out what that means.'  
  
Sherlock licked his lips, and the act made him think of John, and that hurt. 'You…you're not worried about me escaping.'  
  
'Nope. And I'm not going to kill you, either. Try and guess how I'm going to keep you, Sherlock. Just try and guess. You never will.' He clapped his hands at that. He actually clapped like a giddy six-year-old at Christmas.  
  
They emerged from the trees into a vast clearing. The space was dominated by a large, glittering lake. The moon's reflection shimmered on the surface of the water. It was low in the sky, and the sky to the East was just beginning to pale. It made everything grey and flat-looking, though it was still beautiful. Wildflowers and foliage surrounded the thin shoreline, and a decorative stone archway marked the beginning of a footpath leading up to a towering mansion, larger than the Holmes Estate in Sussex, perhaps larger than Vernet as well. It was hard to tell.  
  
'My home away from home, Sherlock. And now, yours too.'  
  
Sherlock was gently lowered to the ground. He got his feet underneath him and stood. He felt stronger already. Whatever he'd been drugged with must have mostly worn off. Quick, that.  
  
Sherlock slowly turned in place, eyeing Seb warily before settling his eyes on Jim.  
  
'If I run, your man here will follow me. I'm still too weak to evade him, and he knows the area. I don't.'  
  
'Obvious, Sherlock. Get to the good part.'  
  
Sherlock licked his lips again. He was thirsty, probably a little dehydrated, too. 'You killed Carl Powers. Somehow you learned of my interest in the case. You've been following me ever since. You've been planning this for…months? Years?'  
  
'Good. But still child's play.'  
  
'You're confident, no, you're certain I won't be able to get away from you. More to the point, you have no doubt I'll join you. You want me to be like you. You intend to do something to me that will render me incapable of escape. You plan to manipulate me, you think you can get inside my head.'  
  
Jim smiled, and it was a reptile's smile. 'Oh, Sherlock. There's always something, isn't there?'  
  
Sherlock tilted his head. 'What?'  
  
'You were doing well. Very well. But you missed one crucial fact.' He smiled wider, and Sherlock fancied he knew what prey animals experienced right before the fatal bite. 'The thing that keeps you here, renders you powerless to escape me?' He chuckled darkly. 'I've already done it.'  
  
Panic flared in Sherlock's chest. He looked down at his body, examined his arms, patted his torso and legs. He found nothing amiss. He considered. His mind was still clearing, his body growing stronger. He didn't feel drugged, but then, whatever Moriarty had given him could have a delayed effect.  
  
'Nothing so obvious, my dear. And nothing so mundane. Get in the water, if you would.'  
  
'What?' Sherlock snapped.  
  
'The water. Wade in. Go ahead. It's cold, but trust me, it's better than the alternative.'  
  
Sherlock looked at the lake, then back to Jim. What was he getting at? What could the lake possibly have to do with anything?  
  
Jim sighed. 'Seb, dump him.'  
  
Seb immediately stepped up to Sherlock and scooped him back into the bridal hold. Sherlock flailed and fought, but Seb's grip was unyielding, and a moment later Sherlock was dropped into the shallow water with a loud splash.  
  
Sherlock sputtered and coughed, his body desperate to rid itself of the water he'd breathed in. He was soaked through and it was freezing. He clasped his hands to his upper arms and rubbed them furiously as he shivered.  
  
'See? This would have gone so much better for you if you'd just done as you were told.'  
  
Sherlock struggled to his feet, murky water dripping from every strand of his hair, from his nose, his chin, his fingertips, everything. He took a step, and Seb appeared in front of him, blocking his way.  
  
'I'd stay put if I were you. You don't want to know what happens if you leave the lake.'  
  
'What happens if I don't?' Sherlock stammered through chattering teeth.  
  
Jim smirked and strode up to him. Without hesitation he reached up and grabbed the necklace around Sherlock's throat and yanked. Reflexively, Sherlock went with it, allowing Jim to drag his head down until he was nearly bent double to keep the chain from breaking.  
  
'A swan.' Jim huffed, eyes twinkling. 'I'd thought maybe a cat, possibly a wolf. I considered a stork for a bit, but this!" He shook his head with a fond smile. 'It is perfect.'  
  
'Please, let go of it.'  
  
'Interesting animals, swans. Breathtaking, really. Gorgeous birds but get too close," And Jim released the pendant before shoving hard at Sherlock's chest and sending him back into the water, gasping and choking again. "And they're vicious little buggers.'  
  
Sherlock cleared his lungs and managed to prop himself up with his arms, gasping in lungfuls of air and blinking water from his eyes.  
  
'Go on, stand up. Face this like a man, Sherlock.'  
  
Sherlock stood, pushing his soaked hair off of his forehead with one hand and trying to maintain a sliver of dignity even as he shivered in the fading moonlight, his white shirt all but transparent against his skin.  
  
'Beautiful.' Moriarty breathed. 'Now brace yourself. It's your first time, and, total honesty: this is really gonna hurt.'  
  
Sherlock peered at him quizzically. 'What's goin _AAGH_ !' He didn't get to finish the question as a bolt of sheer, mindless pain shot through his body. He doubled over, clutching at his stomach though the pain was  _everywhere_. And he tried, he struggled so hard to remain quiet and impassive, to take it with dignity and grace, but good God it _hurt_. No, no there was no word to describe the overwhelming agony seizing his limbs. He screamed. He could no more stop screaming than he could stop his heart beating, though that felt like it would give at any moment.  
  
He didn't know when his knees gave out. He couldn't tell when he'd begun to clutch desperately at the reeds and the rocks on the shoreline. He had no idea when his senseless shrieking had evolved into desperate sobs of  _please_  and  _no more_  and  _anything, Christ, anything you want just make it stop!_  
  
But the moment he looked at his hand, that would be burned into his memory forever. It was after he'd stopped screaming, not because the pain had ebbed but because his vocal cords had failed him. In his flailing, he caught sight of his pale hand, and what he saw made him freeze.  
  
The pain still surged and churned through his body, but his awareness of it took second place to what he saw on his hand. There, all along his hand and fingers and wrist, was an intricate latticework of feathers outlined across his skin, like a tattoo. He tried to pull back his sleeve, but his body was unmoving, locked in an agonised rictus, so all he could do was watch the pattern growing smoothly into more detail, the image gradually shifting from two dimensions to three. He saw the sleeve of his shirt melt into his skin before adopting that same image. After that, things were harder to catalogue. He could hear a sick scraping sound inside of his body, and he tried not to imagine bones shifting and sliding. He looked up, and he saw Moriarty moving away from him without taking a step. He stared into his captor's eyes, and he knew his own were begging, knew he could do nothing else.  
  
'Magic is only science we don't understand yet.' Moriarty quipped. 'I'm sure someone terribly famous and clever said that, but I don't much care who it was. The point is: I do understand it. It's amazing the attention you catch when you kill somebody at the age of fifteen and get away with it. Particularly if it was as elegant as what I did. All sorts of people take an interest.'  
  
His vision was changing now, dimming as though he wore tinted contacts. His neck was shot through with the same stabbing pains he'd once experienced in his legs as a child going through his first growth spurt, only far more intense. His shoulders were doing things which, frankly, defied description. The best he could come up with, late,r after his brain was functioning again, was something akin to grinding bone into meal and then solidifying it again.  
  
'I didn't want to do this, Sherlock. At least, not so soon. I was going to wait until you were older, more of a challenge. But then you had to go and fall in love with one of  _hem_. And not just your ordinary cattle, no. You had to fall for one of those oh-so-charmingly altruistic bastards. A "good man".' He scoffed. 'He would have ruined you. He's done too much damage already.'  
  
Sherlock was struggling to breathe. He could barely hear Jim's voice anymore, but he clung to it. He had to focus, had to concentrate, had to  _think_. But it hurt. Oh God it hurt. And it was still going. He didn't want to know what he looked like now. Something half-formed and grotesque. He tried to grit his teeth, but they weren't there anymore. So he closed his eyes instead and begged in silence for it to end.  
  
'It's not permanent, don't worry about that. You'll have your old shape again just as soon as the moon comes back up.' He chuckled. 'Of course, when the sun rises you turn back into a swan. But don't worry. It'll never be like this again. Not once I let her have you.'  
  
The pain was receding now. Sherlock was aware that he was floating, but his head at the end of an unnaturally long neck was resting on the dry shore. His body had gotten small. So very small. He looked up at Moriarty again, this time with eyes that couldn't plead, with a face that could not express pain or loss or sorrow any more than it could express anger, hatred or disgust.  
  
'I've given you to the lake, Sherlock. Welcome home.' And with that Moriarty turned on his heel and walked away. Without looking over his shoulder he called, 'All yours Moll.'  
  
And then he was gone, and Seb with him. Sherlock kept still, feeling his new, unwanted body and breathing shaky breaths. He barely noticed when the water around and beneath him surged. He didn't pay much attention when some of it fountained up and took on a solid shape. And when the newly arrived, impossible young woman pulled him tenderly into her lap and gently stroked the soft feathers on his head, well, he just didn't care anymore.  
  
'I'm sorry, little one.' The voice was as gentle and soft as the hand. 'I wanted to help you, but he kept me away. Shush now, I know it hurts. Let me help you. You're not alone, little one. I want you to know that. You're not alone here.'  
  
Her touch eased the pain from his muscles and bones, and he found himself nuzzling his head into her lap involuntarily. He wanted to cry. It was a small blessing that swans lacked the anatomy.  
  
'I'll never let him hurt you like that again. As long as you're on the lake, I can help you. I promise it will never be like that again.' She was crying, but Sherlock didn't care. He let himself drift, let his mind float off to better days, to sturdy hands and warm, blue eyes, to a kiss that had lasted him two years and would now have to last longer. To letters and phone conversations and that laugh which never failed to make him smile.  
  
 _John…_  It was his last coherent thought before everything went black.  
  
~~~  
  
'You're mad. You can't honestly expect to find anything.'  
  
John glared at Mike. 'Don't. Don't say that to me.' He picked his way along the crash site. It had mostly been cleaned up by now, only the mangled earth and missing grass remained to say that anything had happened here.  
  
'John, they've been looking for three months. And I remember Mycroft. That's the kind of bloke with resources. You're just…you.'  
  
'I know how to track a target, Mike. I can go further afield than most operatives. I'm going to find him.'  
  
'John, Christ, I know how much you love the man but you've got to be realistic.'  
  
John rounded on him. 'Realistic?! With Sherlock? Since when has anything between us been realistic?' He crouched down over something shiny half-buried in the broken earth. He picked it up and examined it. 'We were born for each other, Mike. I'll tear this fucking country apart to get him back.'  
  
He slipped the bullet casing in his pocket and continued down the road, Mike trailed close behind.  
  
~~~  
  
'Easy now, almost time.' The young woman with the sweet face and sad eyes was called Molly, and she hadn't stopped touching him since her appearance from within the water. Sherlock shuddered and pressed himself more fully against her torso. Everything she touched stopped hurting.  
  
 _Scared_. He thought, with all the focus he could muster.  _Hurt again._  Molly had told him he'd eventually learn to communicate without words, but so far he'd only managed basic concepts like emotion, and communicating even the simplest idea was draining.  
  
'I know. Don't worry. I'll hold you.'  
  
 _Hurt._  He thought.  _Alone_.  
  
'I'm not leaving you. Come on now, we need to move away from the shore.'  
  
 _Alone._  He insisted. It was frustrating. How was he meant to communicate a complex concept like John without the benefit of words like 'strong', 'gorgeous', 'passionate' and…oh!  
  
 _Love._  He felt it, and he felt it with such force it made Molly jump and surge away from him. When she returned to buoy him up and float him further into the water, her face was flushed and she had a hand over her heart.  
  
'Oh…my.' She breathed.  
  
 _Mine._  Sherlock added, and he pictured John. He focussed on every tiny detail, lovingly recreated his favourite photograph, the one with John leaning against the barracks wall, his face turned up to catch the sunset, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He tried to send the image to Molly, but the effort gave him a splitting headache and the rising sensation of unease in his gut was too distracting.  
  
'Stop, little one! Stop. You're out of time. Just stay still and try to keep calm.' She closed her eyes and her body went entirely transparent, nothing but a woman-shaped mass of lake water. She took a deep breath and collapsed in on herself, joining the eddies and rippling waves surrounding him.  
  
Sherlock looked up at the sky. The sun was setting, and the moon had just begun to peek over the horizon. Sherlock held his breath, and he waited. It seemed centuries must have passed before the moonlight travelled over the water, and yet when he felt the tingling almost-itch erupt wherever the light hit his wings, it seemed the time had come much too quickly. He felt something lurch in his stomach, and he fluttered his wings wildly, suddenly desperate to get away. But the water rose around him, hemming him in. It was almost a cylindrical wave, a gentle cyclone of moonlit water that surrounded him, lifted him. And it felt…  
  
Light. Sherlock was bathed in light, filled with it, part of it. The water surged around him, held him and concealed him. The moonlight filled it, pierced it, and a million refractions scattered it over every inch of his body. He flapped his wings, almost ready to fly, and something inside of him  _leapt_. The world shuddered and spun and stretched away from him, and in a sudden burst of incandescence, he stood on two trouser-clad legs, wiggled ten fleshy toes, and breathed clean air through soft lips covering sturdy teeth.  
  
The water dissipated. The whole process had taken seconds, and it had been painless. Sherlock collapsed to his knees and sobbed, loud and broken, just to hear the sound of his own voice again. He covered his face with his hands, feeling each familiar rise and fall of his features with sensitive fingertips. He felt his eyelashes, his tear ducts, the bridge of his nose, the soft flesh of his nostrils. He Felt his ears and his chin and his forehead. He ran trembling hands through his hair and he let out a high, hysterical laugh.  
  
'Oh my.' Molly breathed somewhere behind him. He didn't pay much attention. He was far too fascinated by the pale pink of his fingers, staring hard at them lest they revert to black-tipped flights and snowy white guard feathers before his very (human) eyes.  
  
'I didn't know. I didn't see. You are…oh my.'  
  
Molly's voice finally penetrated his dazed and addled brain, and he rounded on her. With all the speed he could muster on his still unsteady legs, he sloshed through the shallows to her re-solidified body. Once he was close enough, he threw his arms around her and buried his face in her brown hair.  
  
She squeaked and went rigid. 'Um…'  
  
'You did this. You made it…it would have hurt so much. Oh God…thank you. Thank you!'  
  
She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. 'You're welcome.'  
  
He pulled away and wiped the water from his cheeks. 'Sherlock.' He said.  
  
'I'm sorry?'  
  
'You kept calling me "little one", before.' He gestured vaguely to the reed-sheltered shallow where Molly had held him and soothed his shuddering body. 'My name is Sherlock.'  
  
'Oh! Oh, that's…a nice name. Sort of dramatic.' She smiled, the skittish smile of something small and hunted. 'I'm Molly Hooper.'  
  
Sherlock nodded and turned away. He waded back to the shore, and he could feel Molly surging just behind him with a rolling wave.  
  
'Where are you going?' She asked.  
  
'John.'  
  
'What?'  
  
"I have to find John. I need to get away from here and find him.'  
  
'What good will that do?'  
  
Sherlock froze. 'You're right. He's still abroad. He won't be back for three months. I'll find Mycroft. He can sort this.'  
  
'Sherlock, wait!'  
  
'I just need to find a road. If I can find a road I can find my way anywhere. The day will help there. I just have to figure out how to fly. And at night I can get rides. I'll be fine.'  
  
'Sherlock, you can't!'  
  
'Nonsense.' He rounded on her. 'The pain will be…daunting, but I can handle it.'  
  
She reached out and grabbed his wrist before he could turn away again. 'No, Sherlock, stop. You can't leave the lake.'  
  
He looked down at her fingers clasped over his arm. 'Why not?' He demanded.  
  
She sighed. 'Because you belong to it. You're part of it now, just like me.'  
  
He stared at her, and her whole body deflated.  
  
'When you're a swan…the rest of you, all the…you that doesn't fit in the swan body, it becomes water. It joins the lake.'  
  
'What do you--'  
  
'You can't become human again unless you're in the water.' She didn't shout, but it was a near thing. 'If you leave as a human, when the sun rises the lake will reclaim its property. It'll drag your shape from you no matter where you are. But unless you're touching the water when the moonlight hits your wings, you stay a swan. You'll never change back, Sherlock. The lake owns you now, just like it owns me!'  
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'No.' He whispered, and even to him his voice sounded broken.  
  
'I'm so sorry, Sherlock.' There were tears in her eyes.  
  
Sherlock sagged against her hold, and collapsed to his knees in the water. 'No.' He whimpered. "No, please…'  
  
She knelt beside him and gently stroked his cheek. 'I wish I could help you. I can take away the pain but…I'm just as much a prisoner as you are.'  
  
'John…he…he'll know. When he rings and I don't answer. He'll know. He'll look for me. Mycroft must be looking for me already.'  
  
'I hope they find you, Sherlock. But no one's found this place yet.'  
  
Sherlock shuddered, but whether it was from the cold or from the gaping emptiness in his chest he wasn't sure. 'No. No I can't…I'm done waiting. I've spent the last two years waiting.' He looked around, trying to take in everything. 'I'll find a way out. There has to be a way to… it's a game. He likes to play games. Games are pointless without the possibility of losing. So, logically, there has to be a way for me to win.'  
  
'Sherlock,' Molly protested, but Sherlock ignored her and walked out of the water, back to dry land.  
  
'He wants me to play? I'll play.' He walked toward the treeline, his head swivelling in all directions, taking in everything.  
  
'Do you hear me Jim?!' He shouted, raising his face to the sky. 'You won't keep me from him! I'll play your game! I will find a way to beat you!'  
  
Silence answered.  
  
Sherlock sighed and slumped against a tree, letting himself sink down to the soft earth between two large roots. He closed his eyes and let the cascade of thought wash over him. He lighted on one idea, and paused. He opened his eyes and looked at the painfully young and lonely woman in the water.  
  
'Molly?'  
  
'Yes?'  
  
'Why did you hold me? Before?'  
  
Molly shrugged. 'You were in pain. I wanted to help.'  
  
He tilted his head. 'You're nothing like him. You never will be. And yet he keeps you. He obviously considers you valuable.' He stored it away for further study, once he had more data.  
  
'I suppose he just likes keeping me.'  
  
He took a steadying breath and, with no small effort, said, 'In the morning, when it…happens again,' He licked his lips, then flinched. 'Will you hold me again? After it's done?'  
  
'It won't hurt. I'll see to that.'  
  
'There's more than one kind of pain.' Sherlock pointed out, and in his head the words were spoken in John's voice.  
  
Molly smiled her sad, broken smile. 'Would you like me to hold you?'  
  
Sherlock sighed and let his head fall back against the tree trunk. 'Yes.' He admitted in a whisper. 'I would like that very much.'  
  
Because if he closed his eyes, if he ignored the delicate, soft lines of her fingers and the smooth expanse of her skirt, he could almost imagine different hands stroking his black-crowned head and smoothing the pure white feathers of his neck , different lips smiling down at him, different eyes shining with gentle affection. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was nestled in John's arms, where he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Those Just Joining Us: 
> 
> The Swan Triad is a response to a Swan Princess-fusion prompt which became something of my magnum opus. Because I feel like it, I decided to give newbies a rundown of what to expect in here.
> 
> The comment I get the most about this part of the story is "I was iffy about the premise, but it's not what I expected at all!' Which is lovely, and I'm glad I could subvert expectations, but if you'd rather go in eyes wide open, here's what Find a Way to You is about.
> 
> This is a fairy tale. Unabashedly and unambiguously, this is a fairy tale. John and Sherlock's love is epic, sweeping, and undeniable. This is a Sailor Moon kind of love, the kind meant to conquer all. Whether it does or not is up to you. 
> 
> But beyond that, this is a story of loss and regret, of failure and redemption. This story is about family, and coping with an unfair, unexpected emptiness. It's about losing yourself one compromise at a time, praying to find a way back to what you were. This story is about connection, pain, desperation, and hope. This story is about the best and worst of us, about people losing who they were and finding who they can become. 
> 
> Also, Sherlock turns into a swan every day. So there's that.
> 
>  
> 
> Forward by Piplover-
> 
> Once upon a time there was a fairy tale story. It had evil magicians and true love's kiss. The first blush of friendship and the heartache of separation. It was a tale of good versus evil, of longing and hope, of friendship and family and all the things in between. It was a story that was spun by a master storyteller, and one that was my pleasure to work on. There may be no happily ever afters, but there are the days after our heros ride into the sunset.


	2. Chapter Two

Moriarty liked to watch.  
  
He appeared that first night, in the earliest hours of the morning, with a taunting smirk on his lips.  
  
'I see you've met our dear Molly.' He said. 'She really is a sweet thing, isn't she?'  
  
'She's no use to you.' Sherlock pointed out, still seated at the base of the tree. He hadn't bothered to move all night, content to simply sit and chat with Molly as his thoughts aligned themselves into something approaching coherence. 'All she can do is ease my transitions. You don't strike me as the merciful sort, so why keep her?'  
  
'I have my reasons. I'm quite impulsive, really.'  
  
Sherlock looked out at the lake. Molly had collapsed into her liquid form at Moriarty's arrival, but he fancied he could still feel her moving about in the water. 'How did you do this to me?'  
  
Moriarty shrugged. 'Oh, now that would be telling. Suffice to say I met a man who taught me some very… intriguing ideas. He was fun, for a while. But he lacked vision. I'm better off without him.'  
  
'Did you kill him? Or did "Seb" do it for you?'  
  
Moriarty laughed. 'You are sexy when you're indignant. I had Seb do it. I hate getting my hands dirty.'  
  
Sherlock smirked and dropped his head back so it hit the bark of the tree. 'So that's what you want. Dull.' He sighed. 'There are easier ways to go about seducing someone. You don't have to resurrect a forgotten methodology to do it.'  
  
Moriarty frowned. 'Quit being obvious. I'm not after sex. We could be so much more than that.'  
  
'You want to teach me your secrets, Jim?' Sherlock asked, keeping his voice low and looking up at Moriarty through his eyelashes.  
  
Moriarty crouched down and grabbed Sherlock's chin with far more force than necessary. 'I want you to beg me for them.'  
  
Sherlock glared up at him with defiant eyes. 'Please.' He mocked. 'Oh please, Jim. Make me like you. I want it. I need it. Oh Jim. Oh Jim.'  
  
Moriarty released Sherlock's face with a rough jerk and Sherlock chuckled. 'I don't need your tricks, Moriarty. I don't want them either.'  
  
Jim sneered, and he seemed about to say something biting in return, then he glanced up and his face softened. 'Get in the water, Sherlock.'  
  
'Fuck you.'  
  
'You remember how much it hurt? It's worse when you're this far away. Molly can't help you out here.'  
  
'I'll live.'  
  
'Yes…probably.'  
  
Sherlock didn't move. Jim clicked his fingers, and Seb appeared from somewhere behind the treeline.  
  
'You don't believe the lake can change you from here, do you?'  
  
'I never leave a hypothesis untested.'  
  
Jim shrugged. 'Suit yourself.'  
  
Sherlock eyed him, then silently manoeuvred himself into what he'd decided was the best brace position for the change. He could feel the sunrise, somewhere inside his chest, and something primal and terrified inside of him was screaming to get back to the water. But he had to try. He had to know.  
  
He got to his knees and sat back on his heels, then leaned forward to brace his hands against the ground. He closed his eyes and waited, every muscle tensed in anxious anticipation.  
  
The first sharp, hot tug stole his breath away, and he gasped through gritted teeth. It was agonising, but bearable. He took deep breaths and dug his fingers into the soft dirt. Then something inside him broke with a loud, sickening _crack_  and he screamed. Bones began to snap and grind under his skin, internal organs twisted and writhed, muscle stretched and squeezed and his vision went white behind his eyelids. He screamed until he ran out of breath, and he couldn't draw more. His elbows gave, and he found himself sprawled on the ground, still shrieking but without any sound left.  
  
Then the pain… stopped. Sherlock looked up, and he could see feathers sprouting from his cheeks in his peripheral vision, to see that Jim had his hand raised. There was a corona of something both dark and bright around his fingertips, though that could have just been his vision recovering from the shock.  
  
'If I let you continue any further, you won't have human vocal cords anymore. Now, I can't stop it for much longer, you will finish the transformation. You can finish out here, or you can go back to the lake like a good little boy. Which would you prefer?'  
  
Sherlock gasped in air for a moment, and tried to think. The pain was still there, hovering somewhere just beyond his skin, ready to attack again. He knew he should refuse, should prove Moriarty had no sway over him. He should be strong enough to endure whatever the sick madman threw at him. But one more second of that torture would tear him apart. He knew it.  
  
'The lake.' He sobbed. 'Please.'  
  
Jim nodded at Seb, who wordlessly scooped Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock let it happen, allowed his awkward, half-formed body to hang limp in the large man's hold. No sooner had Sherlock hit the water than Molly rose to surround him, the conical wave scattering sunlight everywhere. He felt the surge of his body joining the light, was dimly aware of the water receding away from his new shape, and had just enough presence of mind to rest his head on Molly's arm before he mercifully passed out.  
  
 _Never again._  He vowed. And then silence.  
  
~~~  
  
It wasn't easy, facing Mycroft after everything. John found himself making excuses to be elsewhere whenever Mycroft entered a room. He usually stayed just long enough to get an update on Mycroft's investigation before finding something, anything else to do.  
  
Wandering the Library, for instance. It felt strange to be here, where Sherlock had spent so much time. It was the house sanctuary, he knew, and it had been where Mycroft took Harry when things were bad. John had never needed it, but Sherlock had wiled away long, lonely afternoons among the shelves in here. The thought sent a painful stab through his heart. All that time, all that wasted time.  
  
He scanned the shelves, unsure whether he wanted to smile or cry. It was like a Holmes family timeline. One corner was devoted entirely to the picture books and early reader stories from the boys' childhoods. He even recognised some titles from when he and Harry were kids. They must have come from the Islington flat, like John's old clothes.  
  
It was right, really. The Holmes stories and the Watson stories mingled across the years. Their lives had been so intertwined for so long…  
  
John followed the timeline into adolescence, where his compiled Bradbury nestled side-by-side with Sherlock's Poe, and his  _Battle of Britain: A History_  shared space with Sherlock's  _Treatise of Cellular Decomposition_. He thought of all those lazy summer evenings, of Sherlock curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs, his nose buried in something heavy and dry. If John had bothered to join him on occasion, if he'd deigned to spend a quiet dusk sharing space with the boy, would they have understood?  
  
Plenty of time for that later, he decided. After all, it wasn't like he'd never see Sherlock again. It was only a matter of time.  
  
He wandered down the shelves, noting the eclectic, haphazard organisation with a fond smile, and was just about to settle down with a random volume when something on one of the armchairs caught his eye.  
  
It was thick, bound in leather, and too wide to be a book. He picked it up, and the pages were card stock. A portfolio, then. Or a photo album. Hadn't Sherlock written to him about Harry's interest in photography?  
  
He lifted the cover, and his heart stopped for a moment. When it started beating again, it may as well have been a sledgehammer smashing at his sternum.  
  
Sherlock smiled up at him from the photograph. Harry was draped over his shoulders, her mouth wide open mid-laugh, her blonde hair cascading over one shoulder as she peered round Sherlock's back to see his face. Sherlock held up a sheet of A4 with Harry's handwriting that said, 'Welcome Home, Soldier'. The pair of them looked like they had just shared a side-splitting joke, and Sherlock's skin was crinkled around his eyes and his cheeks were dimpled with his grin.  
  
John drew a shuddering breath, and it burned down his throat before settling like a pair of lead weights in his lungs. He heard a torn, broken sob come out of his mouth, and suddenly his legs were unstable again, not up to the task of holding him upright. He sagged against the wall and let himself sink to the floor, the album propped on his knees.  
  
'It's yours, you know.' Said a voice, and John jerked his head up.  
  
'Harry.'  
  
She walked into the room unsteadily. Her eyes were red and blood-shot and puffy. There were dried tear tracks down her cheeks. 'It was supposed to be…' She broke off, then took a shaky breath. 'I was going to give it to you when you got home. We. We were gonna give it to you. It was after the photo shoot. It was like…we were on the same wavelength or something. He said the poses were dishonest, and I thought you'd want to…to catch up on what you missed.'  
  
'You and…' But John couldn't bring himself to say it.  
  
Harry nodded. 'He loved-- _loves_  you so much, John.' She gulped. 'He's gotten so beautiful since you left. I just wanted you to see, I wanted you to see it happen.'  
  
John felt an almost literal snap in his chest. He tried to breathe in, but everything in his upper torso ached and his throat burned. He blinked the blurriness from his eyes and forced himself to turn the page.  
  
Sherlock lay on the sofa in his bedroom, he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt John recognised from his own wardrobe, and he was fiddling with the necklace. He seemed oblivious of the camera, but in the photograph right beside that one he was in the same position, but his head was turned to face the lens and he beamed with a surprised smile.  
  
On the next page, Sherlock danced with Harry the way he'd done when they were seven. Harry's hair was frozen in a shimmering halo around her head, and Sherlock's brown curls shone almost auburn in the sunlight streaming through the window. In the background, Mycroft laughed with his hands raised mid-clap. Sherlock was smiling, soft and restrained, but his eyes were bright.  
  
They continued like that. Page after page of Sherlock's life without him, surrounded by the warm smiles of his family and John's. Harry had a gift, John realised. She managed to capture various aspects of Sherlock perfectly with each snap. She'd gotten a picture of Sherlock talking animatedly on the phone, and John didn't have to guess who was on the other end. There was a photo of Sherlock curled up in one of the library chairs, eyes intent on a heavy-looking science journal. Another one showed Sherlock and his mother sprawled out on a blanket in the garden, just about to fall asleep, and John had to close his eyes and just try to breathe for a moment.  
  
There was one photo of Sherlock and Harry sharing a birthday cake, and John nearly had to close the book. He looked away and heaved air in and out of his lungs, but he still felt like he was about to suffocate.  
  
The last page with a photo on was poorer quality than the rest. It had been taken with a cheap camera on the day of Sherlock's graduation party. From within, the kiss had been hazy, intense and all-encompassing. From the outside looking in, it was tender, and they seemed to fit perfectly. It seemed to John as if the people in that photograph had been kissing their whole lives. His lips tingled and ached with a mixture of memory and wanting, and he pressed his fingers to them almost as though he could hold the feeling of Sherlock's lips on his through sheer force of will.  
  
'I liked him. Growing up.' Harry muttered. 'He ignored me, and I think he resented how well I got on with Mye, but I liked him. And then we grew up and he used to come to my room and complain about you. Then you were gone and… you know him. He wants to know everything. Whenever he was home on hols, he'd come to my room and we'd just talk about you. Sometimes the sun would come up and we didn't even notice.'  
  
'I... I didn't know.'  
  
'Of course you didn't.' Harry huffed a bitter laugh. 'You're so selfish, John. You think just because you were on the verge of shagging him that you want it the most. Mye's been looking for three months. Sherlock is his brother. He actually remembers what it was like when Sherlock was born, when no one thought he'd survive. I've been the one to sit with him every time you didn't call, when it took all he had not to cry for you. Mum and Auntie Vivi have spent his whole life doing everything they could to show him how brilliant he is. Don't you dare think you've got the most to lose if they don't find him, John. Don't you dare forget that we love him just as much as you.'  
  
John let his head fall against the wall and clenched his eyes shut. 'I'm sorry.' He whispered. 'Christ, I'm…'  
  
Harry sighed and dropped down beside him. She rested her head against his shoulder. 'No. I am. It's different for you. Not…worse. But different. You had to wait so long, and now…'  
  
'I just want to touch him.' John said softly. 'Even if it's just for a moment, even if it's just two fucking seconds. I just want something solid and warm. I just want to know he's alive. Just a touch.'  
  
Harry went quiet, for a moment. She worried at her lower lip and seemed to be struggling with something. After a time, she settled and began to speak. 'He cried. Sometimes. It was never when you didn't call. He wouldn't let himself. He said it was premature mourning. But sometimes, after you two talked or after he'd sent a letter, or got one. Sometimes when we stayed up all night remembering you, he cried then. I'm not even sure he was aware of it half the time. He'd just be talking or reading or just…sitting there, and there'd be tears running down his face. Just this …this quiet suffering.'  
  
'Why are you telling me this?' John asked. 'Are you trying to punish me for leaving? Do you honestly think there is any way I could possibly feel more shit about myself than I do right now?'  
  
'I'm not trying to hurt you, John!' She snapped. 'I just… I want you to know what I've seen. Sherlock is a part of my life, too. I know him. I miss him. I just want him back, okay?'  
  
'I'm trying!' John cried. 'I'm doing everything I fucking can, alright? I just.' He took a breath and gritted his teeth. 'I need something to work with. I need… I just need a trail. Something I can follow. Give me a direction, Harry, and I'll do whatever it takes. This waiting is killing me, but I've got nothing.'  
  
'Mike said you found something at the scene.'  
  
John sighed and looked up at the ceiling. 'Nothing. Bullet casing. Didn't come from the gun that shot the driver. It wasn't even fired that night.'  
  
'Then how did it get there?'  
  
John shrugged. 'Someone put it there. It's just a fucking taunt.'  
  
'How do you know?'  
  
John smirked. 'Because Mycroft's people wouldn't have missed it if it was a genuine part of the crime scene, and because it's been engraved.'  
  
He fished the casing out of his pocket. 'S. M. High calibre. Rifle ammunition. Might be military. Mycroft's people are chasing down whatever intel they can. Right now it's just a fucking waiting game.'  
  
'Sherlock hates waiting.' Harry said, her voice grim.  
  
John permitted his lips to smile, but it was thin and sombre. 'I don't know where he is, or what he's doing right now.' He said. 'But I can guarantee you he's not waiting.'


	3. Chapter Three

Sherlock had never had much cause to reflect on the cleverness inherent in the design of the human body, not until he lost his. Now, though, now he'd kill for fingers. He'd knock over a bank if it would give him proper knees or feet without that ridiculous webbing. He craved eyes on the front of his head. This business of gazing out either side gave him a headache.   
  
He solved the problem by sleeping. He wasn't sure if swans were meant to be nocturnal, but he didn't really have a great deal of options during the day. Float, preen, swim, practise 'talking' with Molly, the same dreary repetition every single day.  
  
*I hate this body.* He grumbled.  
  
'I know. But it's nearly midday. Not much longer.' Molly assured him.   
  
*The moon is getting smaller. I don't think I can bear it. Three nights without changing. I'll go mad.* He stamped his webbed foot down on the ground, packing the mud more solidly.  
  
'I'm sure you'll cope. How's it coming?'  
  
Sherlock swivelled his head, trying to bring things into proper focus. Bloody eyes. They were too far apart! *Not as well as it would be if I had  _hands_.* He snarled. *Or any reach to speak of. *  
  
He regarded his shelter critically. Jim so far hadn't deigned to give him any way to protect himself from the weather, so Sherlock was endeavouring to build himself something suitable. It was slow going, though. At night he was hampered by his night vision. During the day, he was hampered by everything else.   
  
He stamped his way across the clearing, foolishly grateful that swans at least had the dignity not to waddle like geese. Even so, he took care how he moved his body. The body. The swan. He wondered if he should hate the birds now, if that would be the 'normal' reaction. But he didn't want to hate them. He didn't want to look at John's necklace and feel revulsion. He wouldn't let Jim take that away, too.   
  
Something prickled at the back of his skull, just at the tip of the black wedge of feathers that crowned his head, and he whipped round to see what had caused it. The clearing was unchanged, but he could make out the shapes of Moriarty and Seb walking down the path.  
  
No sooner had the men reached the clearing than a dusty brown cannon ball shot out of the sky in a suicide plummet. The projectile resolved itself into a sharp-eyed bird of prey, a falcon by the looks of things, and pulled out of its dive just in time to avoid collision with the ground. It alighted smoothly at Moriarty's feet, and in the next breath the bird was replaced by a man, early to mid-thirties. He towered over Moriarty, but was dwarfed by Seb. He had dark brown hair edging toward the colour of granite, he wore dusty, well broken-in motorcycle leathers in red and black, and the expression he aimed toward Moriarty fairly dripped with disdain.   
  
'Well?' Moriarty prompted.  
  
The bird man sighed. 'Nothing to report. Simkins never got close to the safe house. Your boys led him off well before he reached the perimeter.'  
  
'What about Pellor?'  
  
'He's dead.'  
  
'Excellent. And the shipments?'  
  
'Not a hitch. Your whole bloody empire is shaping up like clockwork. Now would you please untie me?'  
  
Moriarty sneered, but he clicked his fingers at Seb, who crouched down and removed something from the man's right ankle. It looked to be a length of leather cord. The moment Seb pulled it free, the tension drained from the man's body and he let out a near-obscene sigh.  
  
'Thanks mate.' He said to Seb. 'Always good to hear the sound of your voice. Gives me chills.' His own voice was gravelly and rough.   
  
Seb said nothing, just stood up beside Jim and waited. Jim held out his hand, and Seb dropped the cord into his palm.  
  
'Don't wander too far. I may have more work for you.' Moriarty tilted his head, much like a lizard would, and turned away.  
  
'He-hey! Look at what we have here.' The man called out with a grin, bringing Moriarty and Seb to a halt. He began to move toward Sherlock with the loose-limbed gate of the perpetually cocky. 'Another bird-brain for the collection.'  
  
He turned to face Jim with an exaggerated pout. 'Oh, Jimmy. Am I not man enough for you anymore? Is this how you break up with me?'  
  
'You were only ever a place-holder. You know that.' Moriarty called back with a smirk.  
  
The man nodded slowly, a look of comprehension spreading over his features. 'Aah. So this is the infamous "him".' He came to rest in front of Sherlock and crouched down on his haunches. 'Wouldn't have pegged you for the swan type, Jimmy. Figured he'd be a hawk or a fox or something. Something with bite.'  
  
'Don't underestimate him.' Jim warned. 'He's worth a thousand of you.'  
  
*Oh, Jim. I didn't know you cared.* Sherlock sneered.  
  
The man barked out a laugh, and Jim frowned.   
  
'He can't hear you, Sherlock.' The man said. 'It's the best bit really. You can call him a  _pasty-arsed little ponce_ !' He shouted the insult in Jim's direction, then turned back to Sherlock and softened his tone. 'And he'd never know.'  
  
*You're not…* But Sherlock didn't know how to finish the sentence.   
  
The man did it for him. 'Afraid? Of Jimmy? Please. Little prat can't even figure out how to get rid of me.'  
  
'Matter of time fly-boy.' Jim called.  
  
The man rolled his eyes. 'PC Greg Lestrade. Been this arsehole's errand boy for two years now.' He jerked his thumb at Jim.   
  
'And you do it so well.' Jim chirped.  
  
Lestrade ignored that and put out his hand, palm up, with his fingers curved up so his hand made a sort of cup. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, then realised what Lestrade wanted, and jabbed his bill into the fleshy centre of Lestrade's palm. As close to a handshake as he could get right now.   
  
'Welcome to the club, pretty boy.' Lestrade said, and his voice was tinged with weariness.   
  
'Keep an eye on him, won't you Greg? I'll be back in the morning.' Jim called as he and Seb resumed walking away.  
  
Lestrade flipped them the V without turning around and rolled his eyes. He kept his eyes on Sherlock. 'I suppose he's got you on one of those day and night deals, eh?'  
  
*Moonlight on the lake.* Sherlock groused. *It's insulting, really.*   
  
Lestrade rolled his eyes and collapsed against a nearby tree. 'Yeah, tell me about it. Every time he puts that bloody leash around my leg I want to kill meself. I don't know why he can't just  _ask_  me to fly wherever he wants.'  
  
He jerked up suddenly. 'Moll!' And in a blink he was on his feet and rushing to the water's edge. 'Come on out, gorgeous. He's gone now.'  
  
Molly fountained out of the lake and drifted to Lestrade. He waited for her to reach the shallows before slogging in himself, heedless of the mud and silt clinging to his boots. As soon as they were in reach, the pair embraced like lovers, seemingly unaware that Sherlock was even still there.  
  
'You're back.' Molly said weakly, and beside Lestrade it was suddenly far too easy to see just how young she was.   
  
'Hey, none of that.' Lestrade said, his voice soft. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head to seek out her eyes. 'I'd never do that to you, kid. Together or not at all, right?'   
  
Molly nodded and sniffled. It touched something in Sherlock, to see this woman who had been so strong for him suddenly turn so fragile. He blamed John, and even thinking the name made his body feel too heavy, made his chest burn.   
  
Lestrade rubbed his hands up and down Molly's arms. 'So cold. Come here.' He walked backward, bringing her to the very edge of the water. Once he was past the shoreline, he sat down on the ground, bringing Molly with him. She sat atop the water, bobbing and shifting with the tiny waves. Lestrade removed his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders.  
  
They sat there like that, fingers laced and heads touching, in a kind of quiet intimacy Sherlock had only ever dreamed about. He wanted it. He craved it down to his bones. At that moment, in that place, Sherlock would have given his life to have John hold him just the way Greg Lestrade was holding Molly, even if it were only for a moment.   
  
They were speaking, now. Too quietly for Sherlock to hear. He moved closer, slipping into the water and gliding over to them.  
  
'…find it, Moll. I promise. He'll slip up, I know it. They always do.'  
  
'Tell me what it's like, Greg.'  
  
'Much the same, really. TVs get bigger, computers get cheaper but you still can't afford one and still feed yourself. People take the tube to work. City boys have their secretaries pick up the dry cleaning. All the same, Moll. Just waiting for you, just how you left it.'  
  
Sherlock wanted to ask, oh, so many things. But Molly was crying. They were those same silent, unacknowledged tears Sherlock had wept more times than he cared to remember. John would have gone to her. John would have wrapped her in his warmth and given her one of those beautiful, shining smiles of his.   
  
Sherlock could only arch his laughably long neck over her thigh and rest his head on her lap. She sniffled.   
  
'Hello Sherlock.' She said with a broken smile.   
  
*Hello.*  
  
Lestrade's hand rested gently on Sherlock's head and stroked the inky black feathers there. 'Never seen a swan like you.' He said softly.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and said nothing. He didn't know what swans usually looked like. He hadn't ever bothered to remember. The only swan he'd ever cared about was etched in silhouette on white gold. For all he knew, every swan was snowy white with black-tipped wings and a shock of black feathers atop the head. And if not, well, he didn't see why he should care.   
  
'He's a sick son of a bitch,' said Lestrade. 'But the bastard's got style.'   
  
Molly laughed a mirthless laugh and ran a soothing hand along one of Sherlock's wings. 'Not too long now.' She said. 'Nearly sunset.'  
  
*No hurry.* Sherlock lied. He snuggled into Molly's lap and let the water rock his body into a quiet doze.  
  
'You know, Sherlock,' said Lestrade on the edge of Sherlock's awareness. 'If you like, you could fly with me.'  
  
*Fly?* He hadn't considered it, not after he'd learned why he could never leave the lake.   
  
'Yeah.' Lestrade breathed. 'I mean, it doesn't change anything but, sometimes when you're up there there's this moment when…when it's almost okay.'  
  
Sherlock lifted his head and focussed on Greg. The man had a far away look in his eyes as he absently rubbed Molly's arm.  
  
*Oh. Okay then.* He let his head fall back onto Molly's leg and closed his eyes.  
  
 _Fly…_  He thought.  _I can fly._  
  
~~~  
  
'What do you mean, "nothing"?' John demanded. 'It can't be nothing!'  
  
'I'm sorry John.' Mycroft kept his voice infuriatingly calm. 'We've no leads. Everything that could help us is above my security clearance.' He at least had the decency to twist his mouth into a moue of frustration at that.  
  
'Above you? What's above you?' John demanded.  
  
Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes upward. 'Whatever my brother has written, I can assure you that the vast majority of British governance is out of my hands and over my head. I'm only twenty-six, John. Even I can only rise so fast.'  
  
John sighed and slumped down into the kitchen chair. 'I'm sorry.' He muttered.  
  
Mycroft took a deep breath. 'John, please, listen to me. I am doing everything I possibly can. For Sherlock's sake I've called in favours I only just earned. I'm pushing my security clearance to the absolute limit. I've bribed, cajoled, even dabbled in blackmail to get as far as I have, and there. Is. Nothing.'   
  
'Have you at least found a name to match the initials? Even a list of them. I'll go door-to-door if I have to, Mycroft.'  
  
Mycroft sighed and produced a leather-bound journal from his jacket. 'There are approximately six thousand men and women in the UK with those initials who might have access to the sort of ammunition you found at the scene.'  
  
John's face fell and his heart plummeted. He took the journal and leafed through it. The writing was tiny and cramped and it filled every sodding page.   
  
'What about the bullet itself?' John asked weakly. 'The alloy in the casing, powder residue, anything.'  
  
Mycroft shook his head. 'I'm sorry, John. Wherever that bullet was manufactured it wasn't registered. It may have been hand-made. Possibly it was done overseas. My associates aren't as well-connected to the munitions underworld as I'd like.' He rubbed the bridge of his nose and winced. 'Forgive me, John.'  
  
Mycroft said that a lot. John had yet to respond, and it wrenched at him. He knew, really, that Sherlock's abduction wasn't Mycroft's fault. And yet…  
  
'He was happy.' John said, surprising himself with the words. He looked up to Mycroft's blank face. 'Right? That night, just before it happened. You said he was happy?'  
  
Mycroft nodded slowly.   
  
John licked his lips. 'He'll find a way, Mycroft. I don’t know how, but this is Sherlock we're talking about. He will find a way to reach us.'  
  
Mycroft tilted his head, considering. 'To reach  _you_ , certainly.' He gave a wry smile. 'He does so hate to be denied the things he wants.'  
  
John blushed and looked down at his hands.  
  
'Thank you, Mye.'  
  
~~~  
  
The wave receded and Sherlock blinked in the fading light. The sun had mostly gone, leaving only a faded orange smudge above the treeline.  
  
He thanked Molly with a curt nod of his head and walked out of the lake. He had long since given up on wearing shoes. The unfortunate things were doomed from the first night. He strolled across the clearing and rapped smartly on a thick, towering oak.   
  
'Wake up, Lestrade!' He called.   
  
The falcon poked its head out over its branch and ruffled its feathers. A heartbeat later Lestrade sat in its place, his legs dangling in the air, and yawned. 'Go 'way, Sherlock. 'M tired.'  
  
'I'm aware of that.' Sherlock snapped. 'That is precisely the reason I want you down here!'  
  
Lestrade rolled his eyes, but he hefted himself up with the aid of a thick branch and made his way swiftly to the ground. He jumped the last few feet and landed with a soft grunt.   
  
'Okay, okay, I'm here. What do you want to know?'  
  
'Start with the leash.' Sherlock said, his body moving into a comfortable pace as he waited and his thoughts began to shift into higher function.  
  
Lestrade winced. 'Do I have to?'  
  
'Quit whining! Even the slightest detail could prove crucial.'  
  
'Look, how about we just rest, right? You've got your flying lesson tomorrow, I feel like shit--'  
  
'Greg!'  
  
Lestrade sighed. 'It's this sort of leather strap, right? He ties it around my boot, mutters something I can't understand and then I have to fly wherever he tells me to.'  
  
'How often does he use the leash?'  
  
Lestrade shrugged. 'Any time he wants some eyes in the sky. He's got some cameras and shit, but paranoid people look for those. Nobody notices a bird flying about and thinks they're being watched. He likes me to keep an eye on his henchmen for him.'  
  
'Where did he send you yesterday?' Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers in front of his lips.   
  
'London. It's almost always London. He's got a big concentration there. This one was Maxwell Gardens, just off Brixton Road.'  
  
Sherlock struggled to think back to his last day of freedom, in London with Mycroft. He shook his head. 'Don't know it.'  
  
'He had me spy on this flat. One of his boys was using it to have a bit too much fun on company time.'  
  
'Prostitute?'  
  
'Drugs. Made the copper in me all sorts of excited, but you can't really arrest people when you're eighteen inches tall and covered in feathers. Nowhere to put the cuffs.'   
  
Sherlock muttered to himself and kept on pacing. 'Oh! Yes! The lake!' He rounded on Lestrade. 'You don't need to use the lake to transform. Molly and I are both bound to it. Why aren't you?'  
  
'I am.' Lestrade said.   
  
Sherlock eyed him. 'How?'  
  
'If I can't see it from where I am, I can't change. I stay a bird. I don't need the water touching me, no. But I need to be in sight of the lake at all times if I want to be human.'  
  
'Why?' Sherlock demanded. 'If I'm not in the water it's…' But he shook his head, unwilling to think about those first mornings.  
  
Lestrade's face softened. 'Yeah, I know. You're not the first person Jimmy's done this to. Usually they crack, give him what he wants, then he buys them back from the lake. But I was his first change. He still had a lot of kinks to work out in the formula. Nowadays when he binds people, he does it properly. But I was a test run, just to see if it worked, so I got off a bit easier.'   
  
'What about Molly?' Sherlock said. 'Why can't she leave the water?'  
  
Lestrade shrugged. 'Before my time. Probably she was Jim's first…anything. She won't talk about it and I don't ask.'  
  
Sherlock stopped short. 'That's just foolish!' He said. 'Why refuse a discussion that could lead to your benefit?'  
  
Lestrade's expression clouded and he glared at Sherlock. 'Because it can't. There's no way to free either of us without our Keys, and Molly's been looking for hers for years.'  
  
Sherlock froze. 'Key? What Key?'  
  
Lestrade sighed. 'It's part of the whole deal. Equal and opposite reaction sort of thing. Whenever Jim casts a spell, he creates a sort of…I don't know, loose thread. If you pull it, the whole thing comes apart. It has to do with whatever he wanted to get out of the spell in the first place.'  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened, and he felt a warm, fizzy excitement begin to bubble in his veins. 'Go on.' He urge, almost breathless.  
  
Lestrade slumped against his tree. 'Well, I know mine. Jim told me. He wants to get rid of me, but he can't figure out how to buy me back from the lake. Like I said, I was a prototype. Full of bugs.'  
  
'What is it?'  
  
Lestrade rolled his shoulders and looked up at the sky. 'Well, I got him and Moran on a traffic violation. They conveniently forgot that you're supposed to stop at a red light, not speed up. Especially when you've got an arsenal of guns in the boot.'  
  
'Keep going.' Sherlock prodded.   
  
'So I tried to arrest 'em, Seb made it all go black, Jimmy decided to teach me a little lesson about the food chain. So since he turned me into a bird to prove his superiority, if I want to break the spell I have to," he cleared his throat and recited, '"Make him yield to me before the eyes of Britian" end quote.'  
  
Sherlock mentally stumbled. 'You have to what?'  
  
'They're all like that. Fucking esoteric bullshit. I mean, how the fuck am I supposed to make Jim do as I say, much less get the BBC to cover it?'  
  
'So…if we want to find Molly's Key, we need to find out what he wanted to achieve by imprisoning her in the lake?'  
  
'That's about it, pretty boy.'  
  
'And when Jim changed me, I got a Key as well.'  
  
'Yep. Built in. Magic's got to balance itself or it all falls to bits. If you can figure out what Jim wanted the most when he bound you, you're halfway there. The rest is just figuring out just how far the spell needs you to go. Like, it's not enough for me to just overpower Jim, I've got to do it in such a way that he can't deny it. The whole bloody country's got to see it happen.'  
  
'Which Jim can never allow.'  
  
'Got it in one.'  
  
Sherlock stalked down to the lakeshore and called for Molly. She rose up into her solid body and looked around nervously. 'What is it?'  
  
'Tell me how Jim captured you.'  
  
Molly blanched and her shape wavered. 'Wh-why do you want to know that?'  
  
Sherlock smiled. 'It's time I work a little magic of my own.'


	4. Chapter Four

'Alright.' Said Mike, gingerly slipping the ear guards off his head. 'I think that'll just about do it for today.'   
  
'Another.' John said, neatly sliding a new clip into place. 'I need more practice.'   
  
Mike sighed. 'John, the little paper man isn't going to get any deader. And you've gone through three already. Let's go get something to eat, have a bit of a rest.'   
  
John eyed him for a moment, then he said, 'This gun…it's not like the one I'm used to. A bit smaller, smoother. The weight's different, too. Personal handgun, not military. And if I've got to use it, really use it, in that split second between draw and fire, if I'm compensating for the wrong weight and aim, it could cost me my shot. So by the time I find Sherlock, I'd damn well better know this gun like the back of my sodding hand. So, I'll say it one more time: Set. Up. Another.'   
  
Mike's eyes widened, but he gave no other indication of his discomfort. Instead he set his jaw and said, 'Okay, John. But this is the last one.' And he slipped the bullet-ridden paper target from the frame and replaced it with a fresh one before retreating to the safe zone.   
  
John nodded. 'Yes. We're doing the obstacle course next. I want two seconds off my time over the wall by tonight.'   
  
Mike slumped. 'John, enough. Please. You can't keep on like this!'   
  
John raised his arm, and Mike barely had time to get the cups over his ears before the air was full of echoing, thunderous cracks as John pulled the trigger again and again. Each deafening shot was followed by a neat hole appearing on the target. There were nine in all, each one part of a tiny cluster located over the target's heart section.   
  
John shifted his aim, squeezed the trigger a few more times, and another cluster appeared on the target's forehead. He nodded, set down the gun and removed his ear protection and goggles. 'That's enough for today.' He said. 'Mike, come on. I need you to time me.'   
  
~~~   
  
Sherlock flexed his wings, idly calculating their potential lift in ratio to wingspan, and watched Lestrade stomp his way up and down the shoreline.   
  
'Thirteen! Fucking thirteen! No wonder she's so fucking… I mean come on! She was thirteen!'   
  
*And Moriarty was fifteen at the time. We've established the timeline, Greg, may we move on?*   
  
'Move-- Sherlock are you damaged? How can it not bother you that the sick freak abducted her when she was only thirteen?'   
  
Sherlock ruffled his feathers and attempted to glare. Sadly, swans were just as ill-equipped for glaring as they were for everything else. *I never said it didn’t bother me, but there's no point in dwelling on it. We can't change what happened, the only way to help her is to free her as quickly as possible.*   
  
'And, by extension you?' Lestrade sneered. Sherlock just looked at him.   
  
*Yes. I want to get free. If my escape means you and Molly get out as well, that's all to the good. But my primary goal is as it has ever been. I want to get out of here and back to John.*   
  
'Oh, John.' Lestrade snarled. 'John, John, fucking John! Don't you ever get tired of saying his name?'   
  
*No.* Sherlock said. *I don't.*   
  
'Fair enough.' Lestrade sighed and rubbed his forehead.   
  
'Two years.' He breathed. It didn't seem like he was addressing anyone in particular, so Sherlock said nothing. 'Two sodding years.'   
  
He dropped heavily to the ground, his back against his preferred tree. He looked up at the sky through the leaves and took a deep breath.   
  
'Time to fly, Sherlock.' He said quietly. 'I need to fly.'   
  
Sherlock nodded.   
  
Lestrade looked at him for a bit, studying something by the look of it, then he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, his entire demeanour changing in the space between seconds.   
  
'Alright, in the water with you. This is flying 101, and the first rule is speed.' With that he stood and span round, hefting himself onto the lowest branch of his tree and scampering up the trunk with the ease of a squirrel monkey.   
  
Sherlock waded into the water. It was colder than usual, and had been ever since Molly had told him her story. Even now, he knew, she was probably curled up somewhere in the depths, reliving that distant afternoon: the old man's papery hands on her arms, the darkness of the car's interior, the smothering feel of the blindfold and cloth gag, Jim's much younger voice speaking nearby, but not to her. Never to her.   
  
_'She'll do, sir. She's got that look about her. She's half-broken already.'_   
  
_'You of all people should know better than to underestimate the quiet ones, Jimmy.'  
  
'Ha. You underestimate me. Molly here is desperate to belong. I'm doing her a favour really.'_   
  
Jim's hand, curled into a claw and stroking through her hair.   
  
_'I'll let her belong to me.'_   
  
Sherlock shook his head. No point dwelling on a past he wasn't even a part of. And at least Molly had near-perfect recall of the event, that was helpful. Still, Moriarty's purpose behind imprisoning Molly remained elusive. At best, Sherlock figured Molly must serve some crucial function, but Jim never hinted at any benefit he reaped from keeping her, no matter how Sherlock pressed and cajoled him each morning.   
  
*Maybe if I took off all my clothes and begged him to take me right there in the water I'd get somewhere.* Sherlock grumbled to himself. The water surrounding his legs instantly rose to scalding temperature before returning to its former chill, causing Sherlock to jump and let out a very undignified squawk.   
  
*I didn't mean it!* He shouted to the water. A bubble rose to the surface and popped in his face. Odd. Swans couldn't glare, but it seemed lakes were perfectly capable.   
  
Lestrade laughed from up in his tree. 'You done flirting with our little mermaid or should I take this flight solo?'   
  
Sherlock ruffled his feathers and trumpeted irritably at the tree. Lestrade just shook his head and smiled.   
  
'Alright!' Lestrade called. 'Now, your body knows what to do. The big thing is just to let go. You've got instincts now, learn to trust 'em.' He spread his arms, and between one heartbeat and the next he was a falcon again.   
  
*What you need, mate, is to go fast. I do it by falling, you've got to swim. Faster than you've ever done, Sherlock. Get those wings moving, they're not just for decoration.*   
  
*Right.* Sherlock muttered. *Speed. No…problem. Just…don't think about it. Just do. Like John. Just…do.*   
  
He watched Lestrade launch himself from the tree, plummeting like a missile toward the ground. At seemingly the very last second, the falcon spread his wings, angled his tail and the downward motion curved over and  _up_ .   
  
Lestrade beat his wings and shot toward the sky, where he circled and called out for Sherlock to hear, *Just fly, Sherlock! Build up some speed and forget all about gravity!*   
  
Sherlock dipped his head into the water and jerked it back up, letting the drops slide over his guard feathers. He still felt a bit hot, though, so he did it again. Were he human, he surmised, this would be the part where he broke out into a nervous sweat.   
  
*Go on, Sherlock. Fly for me.* Molly's voice drifted in his head. It was the first time he'd ever heard it when she wasn't in her human shape, and it fluttered across his synapses like butterflies' wings.   
  
Sherlock swam further toward the centre of the lake and began to paddle his webbed feet. He moved faster, and tentatively stretched his wings. Something prickled in the back of his mind, and he struggled to grasp it. It fluttered just out of reach, evading his attempts to pin it down.   
  
A sudden surge of water lifted him a couple of feet in the air before dropping him back down. When he got his wits back, he realised his wings were fully extended and flapping in an elliptical motion. He thanked Molly silently for the distraction and felt his body take over. He moved faster, wings and feet adding to his propulsion, and a breath later he felt himself leave the water, felt his legs tuck up under his body, and then there was nothing beneath him but air. It surrounded him, embraced him, lifted him higher and he was flying.   
  
*Good on you!* Lestrade cheered. *That's it! Just keep going like that. Climb up to me!*   
  
Sherlock angled his body, shifted his tail and beat his wings against the air. He rose into the sky, closer to where Lestrade was circling the clearing.   
  
Unused muscles burned in his shoulders, and he struggled. *Greg!* He called. *Hurts…I can't…*   
  
*I know. Don't think about it. Just a little higher!*   
  
Sherlock forced himself to climb further still until he was almost in reach of the falcon. In an instant there was something almost solid under his wings, forcing them wide and keeping them locked.   
  
*Updraft!* Lestrade crowed. *Best part of flying! No work, just flight!*   
  
Sherlock couldn't help himself. He let out a triumphant trumpet and wheeled around the pocket of air, listening to all of his body's silent advice.   
  
*This is brilliant!*He cried, and Lestrade whooped his agreement.   
  
*Race you to the forest edge!* Lestrade called, and he was off like a bullet.   
  
Sherlock squawked. *Oh yes, that's fair. Long-necked water fowl against the worlds fastest bird!*   
  
*In free-fall, not in flight.* Lestrade shouted back. *Come on, put your flights into it!*   
  
~~~   
  
Later, on the ground, Lestrade panted and held his shoulder. 'Christ. That was a work-out, no mistake.'   
  
Sherlock slumped on the ground, his neck bent at an odd angle. *I can't believe how that felt.*   
  
'Yeah.' Lestrade smirked. 'I'll miss it. I mean, it'll be worth the trade, don't get me wrong. But I will miss it.'   
  
*The eyes of Britain?* Sherlock asked, more or less rhetorically.   
  
'Yeah.' Lestrade heaved a heavy sigh. 'I'll find a way. Once I've got Moll's Key, I'll figure it out.'   
  
*We will.* Sherlock corrected him. *You're useless without me.*   
  
'You think so?' Lestrade teased. 'Prove it.'   
  
*I shall.* Sherlock sniffed. *Just…as soon as I can move again.*   
  
~~~   
  
'Where is he?' Harry asked, pulling the door closed behind her.   
  
'Practising. Again. Training, I should say.' Mycroft answered. He lowered the folder and rubbed his aching eyes.   
  
Harry sighed. 'He's got Mike with him?'   
  
'Mm.' Mycroft nodded. 'For all the good it does. I confess, Harriet, I find your brother's new…proclivities unsettling.'   
  
'Yeah.' Harry agreed, looking out the window to the front garden. 'He scares me, too.'   
  
She moved over to sit on the arm of Mycroft's chair. 'Anything?'   
  
Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned his head back. 'Too much. And yet nothing.' He let the report slip from his fingers and fall messily to the floor, papers strewn over the carpeting. 'I can't do this, Monster. I really can't.'   
  
Harry leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's high forehead. 'You got me sober. You can do anything you like.'   
  
Mycroft rested his hand on her knee. 'That wasn't just me, Harry.'   
  
Harry smiled and went to retrieve the papers. 'And you're not alone this time, either. Walk me through it.'   
  
Mycroft massaged his forehead and accepted the offered report. 'We've uncovered some level of interest in Sherlock starting around the time he was thirteen. His name was entered into several official databases following his inquiries into the Carl Powers case. We're currently working under the assumption that this was how his abductor became aware of him.'   
  
Harry nodded and slipped into her own chair, and listened.   
  
~~~   
  
Sherlock staggered out of the water and nearly collapsed onto the shore. He couldn't hold back the straggled cry that burst from his throat, and had to steady himself with a hand against the ground.   
  
Lestrade smiled and shook his head. He slipped out of his leather jacket and spread it on the ground. 'Take off your shirt and lie down.' He said, gesturing to the jacket.   
  
Sherlock peered at him, wary.   
  
'Trust me. I know what you're going through right now. Shirt off, belly on the ground. Now.'   
  
Sherlock sighed and worked his way through the buttons on his shirt before shrugging it off. He folded it and set it aside on a patch of grass and laid his bare chest against Lestrade's jacket, resting his head on his folded arms.   
  
'Okay, your wings are a bit different from mine. Tell me where it hurts the most.'   
  
Sherlock winced. 'Scapulae. Toward the bottom. And up around the joint.'   
  
'Right. Deep breaths, and this is gonna hurt like fuck for a minute.'   
  
A moment later Lestrade's hands were on him, and his bones were on fire.   
  
'AAH!' He shouted, squirming away from Lestrade's touch. 'Stop! Stop it!'   
  
'Quite wiggling, will you? Man up! Or should I just toss you into the lake and let Molly anesthetise you?'   
  
Sherlock whimpered but didn't pull away from the next touch. 'Just-- ow!-- Just be careful, alright? I've had quite enough of feeling my bones shatter for one lifetime.'   
  
Lestrade made a noncommittal humming noise, and pressed his fingers deeper into Sherlock's muscle.   
  
'Ow! Fuck! Stop doing that!' Sherlock cried.   
  
'Oh, for the love of…just stay still and shut up, will you? If you'd let me do this two weeks ago we could've avoided all this.' Lestrade sighed and pressed again, and something…gave. The pain receded and was replaced by something loose and warm.   
  
Sherlock moaned and arched up into Lestrade's hands.   
  
'There. Better?'   
  
'Much. Keep going.'   
  
'Aye, sir.'   
  
They kept silent for a while, Sherlock enjoying the feel of Lestrade's rough hands on his skin, Lestrade concentrating on his work.   
  
'You're a sight, do you know that, Sherlock?' Lestrade said after a while.   
  
'Hm?'   
  
'How old are you?'   
  
'Nineteen.' Sherlock said drowsily.   
  
Lestrade froze, and Sherlock rolled his shoulders, trying to coax Lestrade back to work.   
  
'Same age as Molly.' Lestrade breathed. 'Jesus.'   
  
'John's twenty-two.' Sherlock murmured. 'He's a soldier, now.' He yawned and snuggled into his arms.   
  
'You're serious? "Johnny's gone off for a soldier"?'   
  
'John hates that song.' Sherlock sighed. His eyelids were far, far heavier than normal. He'd have to get back into the habit of sleeping during the day.   
  
'How long you two been together?'   
  
Sherlock considered. 'How do you mean "together"?'   
  
Lestrade shrugged, and the movement travelled down to Sherlock's shoulder blades. 'You know. Lingering looks across the table, endless phone conversations that never end without a solid ten minutes of "no, you hang up", kissing till your lips are chapped and you can't feel your tongue. That sort of thing.'   
  
Sherlock frowned and tried to ignore the hot, sharp stab in his chest. 'We've never done any of that.' He said, so quietly he wasn't sure Lestrade would hear him.   
  
'What?'   
  
'We did kiss. Once.' Sherlock winced. 'Well, twice, really. But the second time was hardly a kiss at all.' He blinked. 'That was two years ago.'   
  
Something stung behind his eyes, and he tried to force it back. He wouldn't cry. He refused to cry. Not here, not in front of Greg.   
  
The next thing he knew he was being bundled into Greg's arms, held against his chest and rocked like an infant. 'Oh, Christ.' Lestrade mumbled. 'Johnny's gone off for a soldier, right?'   
  
Sherlock nodded against Lestrade's shoulder. The tears kept pressing, growing hot and painful against his eyelids, but he fought them. 'We got an hour. One hour, once a week. Usually his CO would disconnect us. God I wanted to murder that man.'   
  
'When, uh. When was he due back?'   
  
Sherlock breathed deeply. 'About two more months.' He licked his lips. 'Greg…I have to be ready. When he comes home, he'll be looking for me. I need to find a way to reach him by then.'   
  
Lestrade sighed and pulled Sherlock against him so that Sherlock's back was to his chest. 'I might know a way. But it's useless if you don't know your Key.'   
  
'What is it?'   
  
He felt Lestrade tense behind him, heard the strain in his voice when he said, 'I'll fly to him. Tell me where he is.' He let out a long breath. 'Problem is, if I up and vanish Jim'll know something's up. I never leave Molly for more than a day unless he's got me on assignment. Jim notices those things.'   
  
'So…'   
  
'So it's gonna take me a while to reach him. By the time I get back, Jim'll be on alert. I think I can lead John back here, but if I do and you still don't know how to break your spell, it's all for nothing. You'll still be trapped, unless John fancies keeping a bird in the garden.'   
  
Sherlock frowned and leaned back into the heat of Lestrade's body. 'How would you lead him?'   
  
'The necklace. I'll carry it in my talons, make sure he sees it. He'll follow.'   
  
Sherlock's hand flew up to his neck and he swallowed, painfully. 'I…you want me to take it off?'   
  
Lestrade sighed again. 'Sherlock, which would you rather have? The token or the man?'   
  
'John.' Sherlock answered instantly. 'I want John. I always want John.'   
  
'Then you've got to give me the trinket.'   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes. He hadn't removed the necklace in nine years, not for longer than it took to shower or pour acid, anyway. It was a part of him. He was even loathe to remove it for the sake of cleaning the thing, something it badly needed now. It was a connection to John, something tangible, something to wrap his hand around when the ache in his chest grew too large to bear.   
  
'Don't let anything happen to it.' He said quietly.   
  
'I'll guard it with my feathery little life.' Lestrade swore.   
  
'But I still need my Key.' Sherlock said, slotting his thoughts in a row, joining dots inside his head. 'And the best place to find it is up there.' He nodded at the house, high on the hill, looming over the lake.   
  
Molly shot up into her solid body and stared at him. 'Are you bloody MENTAL?' She cried. 'You can't go in there!'   
  
Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. 'She's right, mate. Jim might bugger off to do his supervillan thing, but he's always got agents left at the house. Moran, usually. And that bloke's is just begging for an excuse to snap my neck.'   
  
'Then don't go. But I've got to get in there. I won't find anything of use just sitting around here.'   
  
Lestrade pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. 'Oh, Christ… Look, if you're going to go, I can't let you do it alone.'   
  
'Fine. We'll do it the next time Jim takes a trip. I'll need my hands, though, so we'll have to do it at night.'   
  
Lestrade sighed. 'Yeah, okay.' He rested his chin on Sherlock's bare shoulder, his breath hot against Sherlock's neck. 'You're fucking insane, you know that, right? I just hope you're as clever as you think you are.'   
  
Sherlock tilted his head back. Lestrade's stubble scraped against his skin, and he wondered if John was still clean-shaven, or if he'd feel that light prickle the next time they kissed. He felt Lestrade shift behind him, and a moment later the leather jacket was wrapped around the pair of them, blocking some of the chill of the night.   
  
Sherlock gripped his side of the jacket and pulled it close, turning to press his face into the pocket of heat at the crook of Lestrade's neck, wishing futilely that the skin was honey-coloured and the hair at the nape a sandy almost-brown.   
  
'So do I.' He admitted.   
  
'Aw. Isn't that sweet?'   
  
They both jerked up and looked at the stone archway, where Moran was stood, holding a wooden box.   
  
'Can't imagine your young man would appreciate it, though.' Moran went on, and Sherlock hurriedly moved away from Lestrade and grabbed his shirt, shrugging into it as quickly as he could.   
  
'Shut it, Seb.' Lestrade drawled. 'Just 'cause Jim won't touch you unless you're dripping with someone else's blood.'   
  
Moran sneered. 'Oh I got no complaints in that department, piggy. My bed's never cold. And, hey. At least I have a bed.'   
  
'Piss off.' Lestrade sounded bored as he slipped his arms through the sleeves of his jacket.   
  
'I suppose at least your bird's sleeping in a cold bed without you.' He paused, 'Oh, wait, I forgot. She isn't is she?'   
  
Lestrade's face went cold and stony, he slowly rose to his feet. 'You son of a--'   
  
'How long did she wait, anyway? Two weeks? Three? You know Jim's got the receipt for the ring. You want to know how much she got for it?'   
  
'You bastard!' Lestrade lurched toward Moran, his fist raised.   
  
'Greg, no!' Molly shouted, and she sent a thick torrent of water between the two men.   
  
Sherlock stumbled back, nearly turning his ankle, and fixed his stunned eyes on Molly.   
  
Lestrade, however, was unmoved. He kept his eyes locked on Moran, who was smirking.   
  
'You gonna hide behind the little girl again, Gregory?' Moran asked.   
  
Lestrade gritted his teeth and shook his head. His fingers were still curled into a fist, but he didn't move.   
  
Moran laughed, deep and slick. 'You shouldn't play with Jim's toys, you know.' He looked at Sherlock and gave an exaggerated air-kiss. 'I know he's tempting, but you don't want to know what happens when you kiss him.'   
  
Lestrade didn't move an inch, but Sherlock twitched, itching to slam his fist into that smug, smirking face.   
  
Moran just smiled wider and knelt to set the box on the ground. 'Enjoy your dinner, lads. Compliments of the house.'   
  
'Go fuck yourself.' Lestrade snarled.   
  
Moran just chuckled, turned on his heel and walked away. Lestrade watched him go, but Sherlock didn't bother. He'd catalogued all the information he had about the house long ago, and the less he had to look at Seb the better.   
  
Molly, however, was endlessly fascinating.   
  
'How did you do that?' He asked. He tracked Lestrade in his peripheral vision as the man moved to the box and began to unpack their dinner.   
  
Molly shrugged. 'I just…did. The water does what I want it to do.'   
  
Sherlock tilted his head. 'And yet you haven't used it to drown Jim.'   
  
Molly blushed and looked away. 'I'm not a killer.' She insisted. 'I won't let him make me one. Anyway, the water doesn't seem to work on him. It falls short.'   
  
'Fascinating.'   
  
'Yeah, bloody amazing. You done pestering our girl Mr Spock? Dinner's on.' Lestrade called from the box.   
  
Sherlock waved him away. 'Busy. I shan't be eating tonight.'   
  
Molly narrowed her eyes. 'Yes you are.'   
  
Sherlock froze. 'No.' He said. 'I'm not.'   
  
Molly crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. 'Sherlock Holmes, you are going to join us for dinner and that is final.'   
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'I don't--'   
  
'Best do as she says, mate.' Lestrade smiled. 'She can get pretty flipping creative with that water when she's in a mood.'   
  
'But I--'   
  
'It's a good idea to keep up your strength as well.' He added. 'Flying takes it out of you, and what if John showed up tomorrow? Or your brother?'   
  
Sherlock sighed. 'Fine. Sabotage my work. It's only our freedom, nothing important or anything.'   
  
Lestrade grinned. 'That's the spirit, mate!' And when Sherlock sulked down beside him he slapped his hand on Sherlock's back. 'Now tuck in.'   
  
There was, as usual, a meticulously balanced meal large enough for the three of them. Sherlock loaded one of the plates with strawberries and brought it to the water's edge for Molly, receiving a sweet smile in return.   
  
He was just about to bite into his own roast beef sandwich when he froze, and his eyes shot wide.   
  
'Lestrade!' He said, and his voice was choked.   
  
'Yeah?' Lestrade didn't look up from his pasta.   
  
'What did he mean when he warned you about kissing me?'   
  
Lestrade tensed and dropped his fork. Molly looked up, one strawberry halfway to her lips.   
  
'A kiss…' She said.   
  
'Very fairy tale.' Lestrade added.   
  
Sherlock allowed a sly, wicked smile to creep along his lips.   
  
'My friends, I believe we call that a clue.'


	5. Chapter Five

'You wanted to see me, Aunt Vivi?' John kept his voice pitched low and soft as he pulled the door closed behind him.   
  
Vienne was sat in her husband's study. Basil Holmes had photographs of his family on his desk, and Vienne was clutching a silver-framed picture of Sherlock looking sombre in his school uniform. He had been fourteen when that picture was taken. John had teased him about his hair, which was cropped extremely short following a slight miscalculation with a Bunsen burner and some flour.   
  
'Atherton resigned this morning.' She said.   
  
John winced. 'Look, I realise--'   
  
'That's three now. You've been back for a week and already you've driven away three of my staff.'   
  
John sighed and dropped into the chair opposite hers. 'I'm sorry, Vienne.'   
  
She shook her head. 'Don't apologise, John. I won't pretend I like what you've done to my garden,' she gestured to the window, through which John could see the muddy, razor-wire-covered expanse of his training ground. 'But I know why you've done it. Just… tell me all of this madness will help bring him back.'   
  
John hung his head. 'I…can't.' The words tasted of bile, but he said them anyway. He'd gladly lie to himself, but not to her. 'I'm sorry. I wish I could promise you. I wish I could guarantee I'll find him. All I can guarantee is that I won't stop trying.'   
  
She nodded, slowly.   
  
'Any news from Mr Holmes?'   
  
She frowned. 'Redgrave has agreed to fund an expansion on the CCTV network in urban centres. Laurent has consented to lend agents for the next thirty days. Mycroft's security clearance remains unchanged for now.'   
  
'What's he at this time?'   
  
She shook her head. 'I'm not sure. He's not quite secret service, but he's above an MP. I think.'   
  
John laughed, but it was a weak and soundless thing. 'Fastest rising politician in history, I'll wager.'   
  
Vienne shrugged. 'He does what he can.'   
  
'And you?'   
  
Vienne's calm cracked and crumbled, just enough for her eyes to shine a fraction too wetly. 'I do the only thing I can do. I wait. I've given them my time, my descriptions, my money. I've given them everything they could possibly need from me. Now all I have left is waiting.'   
  
'Mum says they're leading another search of the Downs this weekend.'   
  
Vienne looked out the window. 'I'm not going. I can't do it again. I can't stand any more hope. It hurts too deeply when it's gone.'   
  
John licked his lips and hung his head. 'I'll do everything I can.'   
  
'I know you will.' She replied. 'I believe that, at least.'   
  
~~~   
  
'Morning, Sherlock.' Moriarty chirped.   
  
Sherlock glared at him but stood firm. 'Jim.'   
  
'You and my associate seem to be getting on like a house on fire. Seb tells me you've taken to flying together almost every day. Tell me, does John have competition, or are you this easy with all the boys?'   
  
Sherlock clenched his teeth and said nothing, keeping his eyes on Jim.   
  
'You know, we should celebrate. You've been here for more than a month now. I think that calls for a little treat, don't you?'   
  
Jim reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. With a slick smirk, he handed it to Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock looked at it. A tanned man with neatly trimmed facial hair was lying on the ground, a messy hole through one side of his forehead, his face drenched in his own blood. Sherlock studied the image, taking in every detail he could make out.   
  
'I don't understand. I don't know this man.'   
  
Jim snorted. 'Of course not. He's no one important, not to most people. But I'll wager he's very important to lover boy.'   
  
Sherlock's head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at Jim.   
  
'That right there is your boyfriend's handiwork. Popped his cherry, you could say.'   
  
Sherlock's stomach flipped and lurched, and his knees started to weaken.   
  
'John's fine, of course. Physically, anyway. Not sure his head is faring too well.'   
  
John. Oh God, John. He was alone with it. Lost. Sherlock knew him, knew this would fester under the surface like an infection. Oh God. Oh God, he was meant to  _be there_ . To talk him through it. To listen, to understand.   
  
'Why are you telling me this?'   
  
'Just wanted to see the look on your face. You're losing him, Sherlock. Even if you got away, what would you be coming home to? Would you come home to anything at all. A lot can happen in the course of keeping the peace, Sherlock. John could be dead already--'   
  
Jim didn't get another word out. Sherlock was on him, snarling and clawing at him, pummelling Jim with his fists. Four years of boxing lessons were forgotten in the desperate need to just  _hurt_ , to damage Jim into silence. Into nothingness.   
  
It took a moment for him to realise that Jim was laughing at him, and an instant later there was a rough hand in his hair, yanking him back and hurling him to the ground. He yelped and tried to press into the hand, to ease some of the burning pull, but a knee dug into his spine and pushed him flat against the dirt, forcing his neck to bend back into a painful arch.   
  
There was a rustle of feathers, and Greg's voice shouting Moran's name, demanding Sherlock's release. Moran started laughing, the sound low and rough, and pulled harder on Sherlock's hair, making him cry out again. A hand wrapped around Sherlock's wrist, and then his arm was forced behind his back and up, toward his shoulder blades, and Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried not to make any noise.   
  
He caught sight of Greg out of the corner of one watering eye, saw him rush at Sebastian, felt the crash of their impact, cried out as Seb's continued hold on his wrist forced his shoulder to dislocate before the grip and the weight were both gone.   
  
Through the burn and the throb coming from his shoulder, he heard Jim laughing, all enthusiasm and delight like a child watching the antics of a pet. He tried to focus his eyes, to make sense of the blurry tangle of limbs and movement that was Greg and Moran, but the pain in his shoulder renewed and intensified with every beat of his heart and his vision was going fuzzy and his thoughts were spinning inside his head and everything was hot and angry and hurt.   
  
He heard a loud thump, then. And Moran's voice sounding much too calm.   
  
'All this time and you still don't get it, do you?'   
  
Lestrade gasped and choked, and Sherlock tried to blink things into focus. It looked like Seb was standing over Greg, and Sherlock suspected the larger man's foot was pressed hard into Lestrade's windpipe.   
  
'You're nothing, birdie. You're weak. I can crush you. Right now.'   
  
It was more than Sherlock had ever heard Sebastian say in Jim's presence, and he wished the man had stuck to silence. His voice was like oil crude, thick and dark and somehow sticky. It lingered on the skin, contaminating and persistent.   
  
'I've wanted to do this for two years, Gregory. I'm gonna enjoy watching your lights go out.'   
  
Sherlock made a straggled sound, a bit too forceful to be a sob, but actual words were proving more difficult. He tried again.   
  
'Jim…please!'   
  
He just managed to make out Jim's head snapping toward him. He didn't have to see it, though, to know the slick, reptilian smile was spreading across his lips.   
  
'What's that?' Jim asked, breathless.   
  
'Plea…please.'   
  
'My, my. Are we begging?'   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes, tried to think past the pain, to focus on Greg. 'Yes.' He forced out. 'I'm begging you. Don't kill him.'   
  
Jim chuckled. Sherlock heard his light footsteps coming closer, but didn't open his eyes. A moment later, the steps came to a stop, inches from his face, and he heard Jim's weight shifting downward just before Jim's hand closed around Sherlock's chin, forcing his head upward. Sherlock opened his eyes, and Jim was close enough that Sherlock could make out his features even through the blurred vision.   
  
'What'll you give me?'   
  
'I…' Give him? What could Sherlock possibly give him? Jim had to know Sherlock wasn't broken, that the moment he had access to Jim's secrets he'd use them to enable his escape. 'I don't…'   
  
'Come now, Sherlock. You know perfectly well that there's so much you could give me for Greg's life.' He smiled wider. 'Think about it.'   
  
Greg choked and gurgled, trying to speak, but a sudden silence signalled increased pressure from Seb's boot on his throat.   
  
'I…' Sherlock thought, forced himself to work through the fire in his shoulder, to ignore it and focus on his mind. He swallowed and raised the hand of his good arm to the top button of his shirt, resting his finger's lightly on the plastic, crooking his thumb around the side of the fabric.   
  
Jim scoffed and released Sherlock's chin with a sharp jerk. 'Stop being so pedestrian, Sherlock. I want something more than your body.'   
  
Sherlock froze and locked eyes with Jim, searching the madman's eyes for any hint that he'd reached the wrong conclusion. Jim only smiled again, and tilted his head, lizard-like.   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'No. No, please. I can't. Please, Jim. Anything else.'   
  
'Sherlock, I already have everything else. I want your surrender.'   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and lowered his head. 'I…I can't.'   
  
Jim huffed and shrugged. 'Very well. Seb, have fun!' He turned on his heel and began walking away.   
  
Sherlock heard Greg let out a strangled scream, and his head snapped up. 'Wait!' He shouted.   
  
Jim froze and turned back.   
  
'Yes.' Sherlock said, and even to him his voice sounded broken and pathetic. 'Leave him alone, and it's yours.'   
  
Jim walked back to him and crouched down so their faces were nearly level. He held out his hand. 'Well, then?'   
  
Sherlock looked up at him, unable to hide the misery and the desperation on his features. He licked his lips. 'Let him go, first.'   
  
Jim sighed and rolled his eyes, but he clicked his fingers and snapped, 'Seb. Enough playtime, let him go.'   
  
Seb lifted his foot and stepped away from Greg. Jim watched his order carried out, then looked back at Sherlock, then down at his still out-stretched hand. 'Your turn, sexy.'   
  
Sherlock hung his head and shifted his weight so he didn't need to lean on his good arm to stay upright. He hissed through his teeth as each movement sent another bolt of agony from his arm, then lifted his good hand to his neck. He paused, his whole body shaking, and took a deep breath.   
  
It was difficult, extremely difficult, to work the clasp with one hand, particularly a hand which trembled as violently as his. He fumbled for several long moments before he successfully worked the tiny white gold bar through the tiny white gold loop, and when that was done he held them together tightly. He stayed that way, breathing deeply through his nose, forcing his eyes to stay dry, clenching his teeth together to maintain his silence.   
  
For the first time in nine years, he let the chain fall from his neck, into his hand, and then allowed the necklace to be held by somebody else. He didn't watch the pendant fall into Moriarty's palm. Didn't look at the delicate chain rapidly coiling against Jim's pale skin. He kept his eyes tightly closed, and relinquished his hold on the only tangible link he had to the man he loved.   
  
'Good boy, Sherlock.' Jim smiled, then he rose and turned away. 'Have a nice morning.'   
  
Sherlock held his hand to his neck and let himself sink to the ground. He didn't care about the pain anymore. It belonged to someone else, someone living. He didn't pay attention to Greg's rush to the water, or to the gasping breaths he heaved after Molly had touched his neck and eased the pressure on his throat. He didn't struggle or so much as move when Lestrade slipped his arms beneath Sherlock's body and dragged him toward the water. He was willing to simply drift to the bottom of the lake, to let it claim him completely, fill his lungs and erase him from the world, but Greg and Molly worked together to keep his head above water.   
  
Lestrade braced his hands along Sherlock's injured arm. 'Hold his hand, Moll. Give him something solid while I do this.'   
  
'Sherlock.' Molly's voice crooned. 'It's okay. We're right here.'   
  
'Scream if you need to, mate.' Greg whispered. 'This will hurt.'   
  
There was a jerk and a pop, and white fire behind Sherlock's eyes. He screamed, of course, but it was as if the scream was tearing from someone else's throat. Everything was far away, inconsequential. The swan was gone. His swan. John's swan. Part of him was missing, clutched in Moriarty's cold hands.   
  
He thought, perhaps, that he said something then. But it was another young man's voice, and it didn't matter. Not really.   
  
Greg said, from far away, 'Moll, it's happening. Help him.'   
  
The wave rose to circle his body, but he barely noticed.   
  
'We'll think of something else.' Greg assured him, then the water closed over him entirely, and the pain faded into something manageable. Sherlock waited for the water to go away, then he tucked his head down against his downy breast and swam out to the deep water, where Greg couldn't follow, and where Molly wouldn't. There, he slipped his head under his wing, and willed the world to fade to black.   
  
~~~   
  
There was a picture of John in Sherlock's bedroom. John had yet to touch it. Indeed, he hadn't set foot across the threshold since his return. It was like he was a teenager again, hovering on the periphery of Sherlock's space, unwilling to venture too close.   
  
But tonight was different. Tonight he had woken from a nightmare and it left him shattered and aching and lonely. Tonight, he needed Sherlock. Down to his bones.   
  
Sherlock wasn't there, but his bed was. And his bed smelled of him. His clothes as well, and John was at last willing to break the imaginary barrier if only he could have tangible proof that this, at least, was a world in which his Sherlock existed, and existed in more than memories and wishes.   
  
The photograph was of John in his uniform fatigues. The photo-John was leaning against a wall he recognised as part of the barracks on base, and his head was tilted up to catch the last rays of the setting sun. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling, faintly.   
  
The frame was silver, and expensive, and worn from being clutched repeatedly in human hands. There were streaks on the glass where Sherlock's fingers had left a faint oily residue, remnants of wistfully stroking the image of John's face.   
  
John's heart, he believed, could not break any more than it already had. And yet it persisted in fracturing again and again with every new reminder that Sherlock, his Sherlock, wasn't there. And how often had he pulled his favourite photograph of Sherlock from his breast pocket during long days and nights abroad? How badly had it faded from the hot Mediterranean sun and his own sweating fingers? He had it now. He kept it in his breast pocket, when he wore one. Otherwise he folded it up and put it in his wallet. But always it was close.   
  
He sat on Sherlock's bed and pulled out the photograph. He clutched it against his chest, directly over his heart.   
  
'I did what you asked.' He said, whispered really, into the empty room. 'I came home. I kept up my end of the bargain.'   
  
He lay down over the duvet and buried his face in the pillow that still smelled of Sherlock's hair.   
  
'I came back for you, love.' He tried to hold back the tears, afraid they might wash away some of Sherlock's scent. 'So why aren't you here?'   
  
There was no reply, only an empty room and the ghost of a memory.   
  
Later, after John had drifted into an uneasy sleep, Ann walked quietly into the room and pulled the duvet over his body. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, for all the world as though he was six years old again, dreaming up stories about the father he barely remembered.   
  
~~~   
  
That night, for the first time, Sherlock avoided the lake. He didn't want to see his own, human neck, naked and cold without the chain. And so he spent the dark hours unchanged, his human body still trapped somewhere in the deep water. He huddled in his shelter, curled up and closed off despite all of Greg's pleas.   
  
'It's just a sodding necklace!' Lestrade shouted, having reached the end of his tether. 'It's not even proper men's jewellery! It was getting manky and gross, anyway!'   
  
Sherlock didn't move.   
  
Greg paced back and forth in front of the doorway. 'It's not John, you know that, right? It might have come from him, but it's not him.  _He_  is out there, somewhere. He's waiting for you. Less than two months, Sherlock! You said you'd be ready.'   
  
Sherlock ignored him.   
  
'Please.' Greg said, soft and miserable. 'Look at me. Say something. Come out to the lake and let me see those gorgeous eyes. Tell me all about John and his not-really-brown hair and his blue eyes and all those other stupid things you talk about all the time. Tell me how you grew up together. Tell me about your kiss. Just say  _something_ .'   
  
Sherlock said nothing.   
  
Greg sighed, then there were footsteps, then scraping against bark, then a rustle of feathers.   
  
*Fine, Sherlock. Stay there. Do nothing. Jim was bound to win anyway, might as well give up now and save ourselves the bother.*   
  
Sherlock still said nothing. But, silently and to himself, he very nearly agreed. And that, more than anything, brought him back to the lake the following evening.   
  
~~~   
  
'Basil's offered me my old job back.' Anne remarked over her coffee. Tea just wasn't doing it for her, these days. 'I told him I'd think about it.'   
  
Vienne said nothing. Anne didn't mind it. She understood. She'd been the same for a time, after Daniel had died. But she'd had John and Harry to look after, and it wasn't really such a shock, a soldier who didn't come home. She'd half expected it and, as much as it had torn her apart to admit it, that had helped.   
  
But perhaps for Vienne it was worse. Daniel had died without a trace of hope, just the empty finality in Major Endrick's eyes as his fingers shook around his mug, his voice breaking with apologies and regrets. But Sherlock was a story without an ending, and Vienne's heart was split between hope and belief: hope that her son was alive and coming back; and the belief, buried deep down where she dared not look at or listen to it, that he wasn't.   
  
'What do you think I should do, Vivi? Is it time I went back to work?'   
  
Vienne sighed, and her eyes were empty. 'He thinks I can't manage anymore.'   
  
'Yes.'   
  
'Because I can't.'   
  
'Should I come back to work?'   
  
Vienne looked up at her. 'I need you, Annie.'   
  
Anne nodded and put a hand over Vienne's listless fingers. 'I'll tell Basil to put me back on the books.'   
  
~~~   
  
Greg flew back to the lake just before sunset. Sherlock was already standing in the shallows by the time the dusty brown falcon lighted on the towering tree.   
  
*Are we still doing this?* Greg asked.   
  
Sherlock nodded, the motion faintly comical in the swan body. *We'll find a way. Even without it.*   
  
Greg shifted into his natural shape and nodded. 'I'm…sorry. If I hadn't--'   
  
*Don't. Jim anticipated our plan. It's obvious, really. The only viable plan available to us. It wouldn’t have been difficult for him to piece it together. Nothing's changed but that now we know he knows.*   
  
Greg sighed. 'I suppose. Even so…thank you. For saving me.'   
  
Sherlock didn't meet his eye. *No, I-- I didn't do it for you. I can't make it to Sussex on my own, even if I knew the way. My wings aren't strong enough. I need you to bring John here.*   
  
Greg smirked. 'You're clever. You'd find some other way.'   
  
Sherlock stared resolutely at the water. *Your life is worth more than a necklace.*


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Six marks the moment when my indespensible Piplover came into the process and started helping me out. Any scenes that make your jaw drop from here on out? Most likely they were her idea. See the end notes for a message from Pip.

_Sherlock's skin was warm and yielding under his fingers, flushed a soft pink from the heat between them. John let his hands explore the endless planes of Sherlock's body, and Sherlock let him, arching into the touch, inviting more with his breath and his lips and his eyes. They said nothing, moving together in silence, they didn't need words._   
  
_Sherlock shifted and flipped them over so he was above John, gazing down at him. He lowered his head and John was lost in the heat of Sherlock's lips. Sherlock pulled away, smiling, and John strained to find the kiss again. But Sherlock moved too far away for John to reach, still smiling.  
  
The smile froze on Sherlock's face, and John watched a bright red hole appear on Sherlock's forehead, just above his left eyebrow. He screamed, but no sound came out. The hole widened, and Sherlock's face sagged. A stream of blood spilled from the hole, running over the curves and slopes of Sherlock's features. John screamed in silence and thrashed, but he couldn't move away. Sherlock's body slumped, and he was teetering forward, his bloodied face tumbling toward John, and John could already taste the hot iron tang of Sherlock's blood on his tongue. His voice returned to him, and he_  woke, screaming.   
  
John clutched the duvet to his chest, gasping and shaking. He looked around, confused, then remembered he had fallen asleep in Sherlock's bedroom.   
  
He collapsed back onto the pillow and clenched his eyes shut. He clutched his hands around his upper arms and squeezed bruises into his own skin. It sharpened him, pulled him the rest of the way clear of the nightmare.   
  
Once he was alert, he stumbled out of the bed and into Sherlock's en suite. He splashed cold water over his face, then leaned on the sink, willing the strength back into his legs.   
  
It wasn't the first time his first kill had invaded his dreams, but he'd never seen Sherlock in those nightmares before, and it shook him. He didn't want Sherlock to see him as a killer, didn't want to find out whether or not Sherlock could love a man with blood on his hands. But he would have to. Sooner or later, like it or not, Sherlock would see the man John Watson had become.   
  
~~~   
  
'Alright now, toward me.' Sherlock backed away from the lake and beckoned Molly with both hands.   
  
Molly gulped visibly and took a few more steps toward the shoreline. Her steps were shaky, and her chest heaved with nervous breaths.   
  
'Sherlock, stop this. Do you honestly think she hasn't tried? I've seen it.' Lestrade picked up a stone and skipped it over the water. Molly flinched and glared at him.   
  
'She goes all splashy and gets sent back. Always happens. She can't do it.'   
  
'Shut it, Greg. You're an idiot.'   
  
'I've seen it happen!'   
  
Sherlock dragged his fingers through his hair, tugging painfully, and gritted his teeth. "You said it yourself, Jim was a novice when he took you. Imagine how feeble his work must have been when he took Molly!"   
  
'But Jim didn't take me.' Molly pointed out. 'The Old Man did.'   
  
Sherlock froze. '…yes. Him. What more can you tell me about him?'   
  
Molly shrugged. 'He frightened me. He was always looking. A bit like you, really. Only he wasn't curious like you are. It was more like…waiting. Like he knew it all already and he was just waiting for the show to start. And it was sort of…hungry, too.'   
  
'Fascinating.' Sherlock deadpanned. 'But tell me something useful. Tell me how he behaved around Jim. Or, more to the point, how Jim behaved around him.'   
  
Molly tilted her head. 'He was always there, whenever Jim came to look at me. Like you look at a fish in a tank. He stood behind Jim's shoulder, and he was always touching him in some way. He'd put a hand on Jim's head or his arm, or around his shoulders. He used to tell Jim to make me do things. Move the water or change my shape, things like that. And Jim did it, but he never looked like he wanted to. He looked bored.'   
  
'They did this often? These lessons?'   
  
Molly nodded. 'Most every day. And on nights when there was a lot of moonlight. Jim would hold out his hand and I'd…do things. I couldn't stop it. He used to make me dance for him…' And Molly crossed her arms over her chest as though to hide from leering eyes and averted her gaze.   
  
'One day,' said Greg. 'I'm going to kill that little shit.' He said it the way other people might say 'One day I'll start a vegetable garden'.   
  
'You won't Greg. You're an officer of the law. You don't execute criminals.' Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave. 'Molly, keep toward me. All the way to the edge.'   
  
Molly did as instructed, and waited. There was a slight breeze and it caught at her skirts, occasionally pushing the hem past the lake's boundary. The fabric went transparent, then, nothing more than water moving like cloth.   
  
'Alright. Fact: you can't move beyond the water's edge without losing control over your shape.'   
  
'Right.'   
  
'And fact: you can manipulate the water around you with an effort of will, even past the boundary line.'   
  
Molly frowned. 'Not…really. I mean, once it passes the shoreline I don't control it anymore. I have to build up enough momentum on this side to make it carry over. And if I aim it at Jim it sort of…dribbles.'   
  
'But you can send it past the boundary.' Sherlock pressed.   
  
Molly nodded.   
  
'Move the lake.'   
  
'What?' Molly asked.   
  
'What?' Greg echoed.   
  
'You heard me perfectly well. The boundary is an imaginary line, it's nothing more than where the water happens to be. Move the line. Change the shape of the lake.'   
  
Molly blinked at him in disbelief. 'The lake? The entire lake?'   
  
'Just this shore for now, but yes. That's the general idea.'   
  
Molly narrowed her eyes. 'Have you  _any_  idea how difficult it is to control the water like that? I can't just…just throw my weight around like that! I need…I don't know…something to put into it. I need to be scared or…or angry or something like that.'   
  
Sherlock brought his hands together and rested his fingertips against his chin, prayer-like. 'Like when you were frightened for Greg. You stopped him challenging Moran.'   
  
'Yes. Exactly. I need…a reason to do it.'   
  
Sherlock shrugged. 'Fine then.' And he brought both his hands to Molly's shoulders and  _shoved_ , sending her tumbling onto her back. She hit the water with a solid thud, not sinking an inch, not making the slightest ripple or splash, as though the water were solid glass or plastic.   
  
'Oi!' Greg shouted, and he rushed at Sherlock, pushing him away and nearly landing him on his arse. 'What the fuck, Sherlock?'   
  
Sherlock gritted his teeth and knocked Greg back with a right hook to the jaw.   
  
'Fuck!' Greg shouted, staggering away.   
  
'Keep away, Lestrade. Molly's a big girl, she can handle herself.'   
  
Greg glared at him and rushed forward again. Sherlock fended him off with a solid chest blow and a jab to the solar plexus. Greg staggered away, wheezing.   
  
'Stop it!' Molly shouted. 'Stop it, you're being horrible!'   
  
'Then stop me!' Sherlock challenged. 'Come over here and teach me a lesson. You've got the power to do it, I've seen you.'   
  
'I can't move the whole lake!' She screamed, and she lashed out with one arm, sending a torrent of water at him.   
  
He had to cross his arms in front of his face and brace his legs against the dirt to withstand it, but he managed. He stood, waterlogged and dripping, and faced her down.   
  
'You can do better than that, Molly! Come on, get angry! '   
  
'Sherlock, stop it. Leave her alone.' Greg gasped, still clutching his abdomen.   
  
'Piss off, Greg.' Sherlock spat. He turned his attention back to the girl in the lake. 'Come on, six years as his little toy and this is all you have? A few splashes?'   
  
'Shut up!' Molly all but shrieked. 'I know what you're doing! It won't work!'   
  
'Why not? It's true, isn't it? Six fucking years and you've done nothing. You let him use you and play you like a fucking piano and you never fought back. Christ look at you! You own the bloody lake. His precious little pond and you control it. It never occurred to you to use that power?' He chuckled and shook his head. 'Of course not. No, that would require a bit of nerve, wouldn't it? Far easier just to hide away like a scared little mouse at the first sight of him, isn't it?   
  
'Sherlock, enough!' Greg snapped.   
  
'No!' Sherlock snarled. 'No, it isn't! She's so fucking weak, Greg! Can't you see it?'   
  
'If she's so weak why do you keep coming back to her?' Greg demanded. 'Where the fuck would you be without her?'   
  
'Please. You think that makes her strong? She's just hiding behind that one little trick so she doesn't have to admit how utterly useless she is!'   
  
'That's. ENOUGH!' Molly roared. She raised both her arms and sent a massive wave at the two men, riding with it toward Sherlock, her hands balled into fists and her face as dark as a storm cloud.   
  
Sherlock saw the blow coming a mile away. Molly was practically telegraphing it to Moscow. He took it anyway, square on the jaw. Molly's anger combined with the momentum of the water gave the punch enough force to send Sherlock spinning dizzily to the ground. Pain erupted across the lower half of his face, and he ended up with a mouthful of dirt and grit even as the water pounded against his back like a battering ram.   
  
The force of the wave dissipated, and Sherlock waited for the water around him to recede.   
  
It didn't.   
  
He groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked around, blinking through the haze of pain in his face and his back at the water around him. With the kind of effort used to scale mountains, he turned himself over onto his back to get a better look.   
  
Molly was stood, dazed and astonished, in a shallow expanse of water fully three feet past the original shoreline. The water extended a good five feet further, to where Sherlock and Greg lie, the ripples lapping at their clothes and hair.   
  
Sherlock tried to grin, but his jaw protested and he ended up yelping instead. He gingerly put a hand to his aching mouth. There would be a fairly impressive bruise there.   
  
'I…I…' Molly floundered.   
  
'Fuck's sake, Moll.' Greg swore.   
  
'I…did it.'   
  
Sherlock sighed and let his head fall back to splash in the muddy water. 'Never doubted you.'   
  
Molly blinked at him, and with a weary slump she moved to kneel by his head and placed her cool hand to his darkening skin. Her touch soothed the pain instantly, and Sherlock managed a weak smile.   
  
'I didn't mean it.' He offered.   
  
'You did, a little.' Molly told him.   
  
Sherlock huffed. 'Yeah. A little. I guess I deserved that, then.'   
  
'Damn right you did.' Greg confirmed. Then, to Molly, 'But did you have to knock me down with him?'   
  
Molly giggled, and looked around and the altered lakeshore again. 'Jim is going to go spare when he sees this.'   
  
Sherlock smirked. 'I can hardly wait.'   
  
~~~   
  
'Alright, cheers mate.' John said, slipping a few fifties into the man's hand before bounding back over to where Mike was leaning against the car.   
  
'I feel like I just witnessed a drugs deal, John.' Mike pointed out.   
  
John shrugged.   
  
'John, you're starting to scare me, here. This isn't like you.'   
  
John squinted into the light of the setting sun. 'And what am I like, Mike? How would you prefer I handle this?'   
  
Mike kicked at the gravel under his toe. 'I don't know, mate. But not like this. You're dangerous. You barely eat, you look like you haven't slept in days, and now you're making clandestine deals with military liaisons?'   
  
John set his jaw. 'I know Harlan. Okay? He supplied the base while I was training. He's got a line on damn near every supplier in the region. If anyone can find who manufactured the casing I found, he can.'   
  
'Legally?'   
  
John looked away, studying the landscape as though he found it infinitely more interesting than Mike. 'What difference does it make if it isn't? Legality isn't bringing Sherlock back to me. I'm not about to ignore any avenue available just because it might fracture a few laws.'   
  
'John--'   
  
'Leave off, Mike. Get in the fucking car. We're going back to the crash site. I want to see if our sniper friend has left me any more messages.'   
  
Mike sighed, but when John slipped into the driver's seat and slammed the door closed, he climbed in beside him.   
  
'Lead the way, mate.'   
  
~~~   
  
'What did you  _DO?!_ '   
  
Sherlock jerked awake at the sound of Moriarty's scream. He spared a moment to be annoyed at himself for dozing off in Greg's arms. He detested sleeping while he was human, no matter how supple and warm the leather of Greg's jacket was.   
  
He blinked blearily at Moriarty, who was staring in what appeared to be horror at the redefined lakeshore.   
  
'Ah, Jim.' Sherlock said, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. 'Spot of redecorating. Hope you don't mind. We were getting bored with the place.'   
  
Greg's body didn't lose a single bit of its care-free looseness, but his fingers tightened around Sherlock's bicep in a silent caution.  _Don't go too far, kid._   
  
Moriarty bared his teeth. 'How did you do this, Holmes?'   
  
Sherlock shrugged. 'Really, Jim, I expect better of you. An idiot could see I'm entirely incapable of something like this. No, this was Molly's handiwork.' He gestured at the water spread out before him.   
  
Some of it fountained up and took Molly's shape. She smiled coyly at Jim and waggled her fingers.   
  
Jim's head snapped back as though he'd been slapped, and Moran stepped closer to him, his body tense and protective. 'Molly…' He breathed.   
  
Sherlock wondered how long it had been since he'd seen her, face to face.   
  
'You…you can't do this.' Jim insisted, his eyes locked on the woman standing atop the water. 'I didn't give you permission! You're not supposed to DO THIS!'   
  
Sherlock was honestly surprised that Jim's outburst wasn't accompanied by a petulant stamp.   
  
Molly just kept smiling at him, and her eyes were both soft and hard with amused pity.   
  
'Stop it! Put it back, right now!'   
  
Molly shook her head.   
  
'You're not allowed! You can't break the rules. Moran, make her put it back!'   
  
'If he lays a finger on her I'll kiss Lestrade.' Sherlock interjected. He kept his voice calm, though his heart was pounding behind his ribs.   
  
Moriarty froze, then jerked his head to face Sherlock. 'You'll…what?'   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'You insist my intelligence is the reason you captured me, and yet you constantly seem to expect me to act like a moron.' He glared up at his captor. 'I'm no fool, Jim. I know you built my Key around a kiss. Your man there told me as much.'   
  
Moriarty stiffened and turned to glare burning holes into his enforcer. 'What. Did you do, Seb?'   
  
Moran shook his head and stepped back, both hands raised in front of himself. 'He--I didn't--they were getting awfully close, Jim! I had to say something!'   
  
'Idiot!' Moriarty snarled. 'How are you that stupid?! Sherlock is devoted to his little pet, he'd never kiss the cop!'   
  
'I'm sorry, Jim!'   
  
'I will kiss him.' Sherlock insisted. He meant it. He had to mean it, or Jim would know. 'I don't know what will happen if I do, but I have to say I'm more than a little curious to find out.'   
  
Moriarty stalked over to him, knelt down and grabbed his arm. Greg sat up and started to wrap a protective arm around Sherlock's waist, but Sherlock pushed him gently back and let Jim tug him free.   
  
'Keep this up, clever boy, and you'll find out soon enough. I wouldn't put too much faith in Greg here having the stones to follow through, though. I doubt even your precious Johnny has that much devotion in him.'   
  
Sherlock forced his nausea down and smirked. 'So it is about John, then? I had suspected.'   
  
Moriarty smiled, oily and sick. 'Everything is about John, Sherlock. It's his fault you're here. You never should have let him kiss you in the first place.'   
  
'I'd do it again. I will do it again.'   
  
He was aware of Greg braced to rush them both. He was aware of Moran's hand dangling a little too casually by his hip. He was aware of Molly standing statue-still and blank-faced nearby. He was aware of all three pairs of eyes trained on him and Moriarty, but they didn't seem important just then.   
  
His eyes locked with Jim's, and the world made a little more sense. He felt something like a hot, tight shiver in his abdomen. It travelled along his spine, up to the base of his skull, and he fought back the urge to wriggle through it. This was what Jim wanted, this storm building between them, the beautiful disaster they could make together. Sherlock could feel it, and it terrified him how much he liked it.   
  
'John will do whatever it takes to get me back.' Sherlock said, and he wondered which of them he was assuring.   
  
'I'm sure he'll try. But you don't come cheap, darling.' Jim's hand snaked its way up to Sherlock's neck, his index finger toyed with the skin behind Sherlock's ear and he had to resist the urge to press into the touch even as he was repulsed by it. 'The price to claim you is a steep one. I made sure of that.'   
  
'He'll pay it.' Sherlock whispered. He could hear Greg shifting behind him, ready to spring at the first sign of trouble.   
  
'He'll pay.' Jim nodded. 'I can promise you that much, my dear. Johnny Boy will pay.'   
  
Sherlock grabbed Jim's wrist and yanked it back, removing Jim's hand from his skin. He met Jim's eyes steadily, refusing to look away from the intoxicating madness he saw there. 'We will end you, Jim.' He promised.   
  
Moriarty just grinned. 'Get in the water, Sherlock.'   
  
Sherlock drew a sharp breath, but he stood obediently and walked to the water's edge. He didn't hesitate to step in, and he didn't look back as he moved further into the shallows where Molly was waiting. He took her outstretched hand in his and turned around to face Jim. He kept his head high even as he felt the sunrise creep along his back. He kept his eyes locked on Moriarty, unblinking, until Molly's wave came between them, her hand turning liquid under his fingers before joining the rising water around him.   
  
It wasn't until he was encased completely and he felt the change beginning that he finally closed his eyes and hid his face in his hands.   
  
~~~   
  
'Molly Hooper?' John asked, peering at the photograph. The girl in it was tiny and fragile-looking. She couldn't have been more than twelve, thirteen at the most.   
  
'Schoolmate of Carl Powers.' Mycroft confirmed with a nod. 'She went missing at the end of term. There was a search, of course. Her parents searched for three years, but she was never found.'   
  
'Oh God...' John breathed. He watched Harry out of the corner of his eye as she poured a glass of water, which she then pressed into his hand.   
  
'Mye thinks she might be connected. To Sherlock.'   
  
John blinked. 'Why?'   
  
Mycroft took a deep breath. 'I've been looking into the death of Carl Powers. You must recall Sherlock's obsession.'   
  
John snorted. 'Yeah, he half-drowned me trying to make a re-enactment.'   
  
'Miss Hooper's disappearance is the second and only other bizarre occurrence at that school in that year. Indeed, in any year. Every other incident is easily explicable, commonplace, but not those two. The Carl Powers case was Sherlock's public debut. His name found its way onto a number of lists after that. Working on the assumption that this was how his captor learned of him, the subsequent disappearance became increasingly suspicious. So I did some prying.'   
  
'And?'   
  
Mycroft handed John a folder. He opened it, and saw a school report inside.   
  
'That's is Molly Hooper's evaluation. Does any of that strike you as familiar.'   
  
John read through the teacher's observations on the young girl, and his eyes widened.   
  
'Bright, passionate, isolated, with a pronounced interest in chemistry and biology. I find the bit about her performance in the dissection lab particularly enlightening.'   
  
John's hands were shaking. He set down the folder. 'She reads like Sherlock.'   
  
'Her disappearance was similar as well. Abducted in the open, no witness recollection of the event, no ransom, no body, no leads. The kidnapper never contacted her family, there were never any demands, the investigation hit dead ends at every turn. It's identical, John, insomuch as nothing can be considered a modus operandi.'   
  
'Which means whoever took Sherlock has done this before.' Harry added.   
  
'Indicating, it would seem, that our quarry is older. Old enough to have established sufficient resources to carry out such a flawless abduction six years ago.'   
  
'Or they were working with someone who was.' John said. He licked his lips. 'Mycroft…they took Molly Hooper six years ago, and she was never found?'   
  
Mycroft nodded. 'That's correct.'   
  
John swallowed past the painful mass in his throat. 'All that time, whatever they did to her…Mye, what are they doing to him?'   
  
~~~   
  
'Let go of me!' Sherlock shouted, writhing under Seb's hold. He may as well have been struggling against solid iron.   
  
'Shut up.' Seb said, forcing Sherlock through the doorway.   
  
Sherlock struggled on. He hated it when Moran touched him. It never ended well. He could still feel the phantom ache from the dislocated shoulder he'd received last time.   
  
For all that, he paid close attention to his surroundings. He'd always meant to get into the house, after all. It would be foolish to waste the opportunity just because it was on Moriarty's terms.   
  
The house did not look lived in. Everything was too neat, too precise, and much too dusty. Jim clearly didn't hire a cleaning service, nor did he find it necessary to maintain the place himself. The foyer was dark and empty, flanked by closed doors. Moran opened one of them at the far side of the room and propelled Sherlock through it.   
  
It was warmer through here. There was much less in the way of dust and there were comfortable furnishings arranged throughout the rooms. It looked to be some sort of servants' area, everything too small and too modest to fit with the grandeur of the house itself.   
  
And that was odd, because if Jim was anything he was a megalomaniac. Why would he deliberately inhabit the humblest part of the mansion?   
  
Jim himself was waiting in a small kitchen, sat at a weathered wooden table arrayed with covered dishes. He smiled up at Sherlock and stood, gesturing to the chair opposite his. Seb forced Sherlock down onto it, and he sat there, glaring at Jim.   
  
'Ah, Sherlock. So glad you could make it. Are you hungry?'   
  
'No.' It wasn't a lie. Jim kept them sufficiently fed at least.   
  
'Are you sure?' Jim lifted one of the silver covers, and beneath it was a glistening roast, still steaming. The aroma hit Sherlock like a fist, and he couldn't keep his mouth from watering, or his stomach from rumbling.   
  
More covers were removed. Smoked salmon, mashed potato, veal, beef soup, artichoke hearts, even caviar all laid out before him, all fresh and decadent, and his knees felt weak.   
  
'I'm sure.' He squeaked, then he cleared his throat and, more forcefully, 'Definitely.'   
  
Jim tutted. 'Oh, such a shame. So much waste.' He shrugged. 'Oh, well. Hope you don't mind if I indulge. I'm quite famished.' He took his own seat. Seb remained standing, but he moved to the door and crossed his hands in front of him.   
  
Jim loaded his plate with food, and Sherlock couldn't help but stare. Nearly two months of sandwiches, cool pasta, and cold fruit and veg and he had almost forgotten what hot food smelled like. He wasn't entirely sure he remembered how it tasted.   
  
'I can't stay.' He said, and his throat felt tight. 'You can't keep me here. You can't do that to me again.'   
  
Jim raised his eyebrows, affecting surprise. 'Really, Sherlock, you wound me. You should know me better than that. I promise I'll have you back to your precious little water fairy before sunrise.' He chuckled. 'Although I am gratified to see the lesson has stuck. You do see what happens when you experiment with my rules, don't you?' He spooned some hot soup into his mouth and smiled.   
  
Sherlock flinched. He did remember. There were days when he awoke screaming in Greg and Molly's minds from the memory of those first two mornings. 'You can't expect me to sit quietly and wait.' He said. 'You know me too well for that.'   
  
'Have you succeeded in freeing Molly from the water?' Jim asked.   
  
Sherlock scowled down at his hands. 'You know we haven't.'   
  
Jim smiled. 'No. You haven't. And I do know. I know everything you're doing, Sherlock. I know you've been nicking containers from your food deliveries.'   
  
Sherlock gulped. 'So?'   
  
Moriarty tsked, 'Oh, Sherlock. It's so much more complicated than that. What do you think you'll achieve? You're not tied to the water, Sherlock. You're tied to the lake. You and the feather duster.'   
  
'And what, precisely, is the difference?' The smells were worming their way into his brain, and he was getting lightheaded. He wanted to pounce on the food and shove as much into his mouth as he could fit. He wanted to grab the roast with both hands and sink his teeth into it, wanted to feel the juices from the meat explode over his tongue. He sat still.   
  
Moriarty laughed. 'This is metaphysics, my dear. It's not so easy as that. You can't break things down into their smallest component parts. Magic, as you persist in calling it, is rather more all or nothing, I'm afraid.'   
  
'The water is part of the lake.' Sherlock insisted.   
  
'So are you.' Jim replied. 'But you are not the lake, Sherlock. Not by a long shot. And, even if you could take a piece of the lake wherever you go, you can't take the moonlight. I've been building your cage for two years. Do you really think you can break out of it so quickly?'   
  
'Is that what you want, Jim? Me in a cage?'   
  
Moriarty shrugged. 'Possibly. You are very pretty. Maybe one day you'll even sing for me.'   
  
Sherlock grimaced. 'Not bloody likely.'   
  
Moriarty smirked. 'But I'd much prefer to let you out and see you choose to stay. You've seen what I can do. You've felt it. You can't tell me you don't want to taste this power for yourself.'   
  
'I want to go home.'   
  
Jim snorted. 'This is your home, now. When are you going to accept that?'   
  
'I'll never give myself to you.'   
  
Jim laughed aloud at that. 'Oh, Sherlock. I've already taken you. And I can keep you, just like this, until we both die. I wouldn't mind it terribly. You make such a lovely pet. But one day you will realise how much you want what I'm offering. You'll forget all about your little soldier and those ridiculous fools you lived with, and you'll only want me, and what I can give you.'   
  
The words burned Sherlock, and he was assaulted with sense memories. Harry's hands, deft and confident, arranging him in front of a slate grey backdrop. His mother's lips, warm and soft, pressed against his feverish brow as she slipped the blanket over his body. Ann's laughter tinkling in his ears, her hands clapping along as his fingers and bow danced across the violin strings. Mycroft's arm slipping around his shoulders, pulling him in close enough to hear the steady rhythm of Mycroft's heartbeat. His father's eyes, gazing out at him from the mirror, smiling a secret smile at him from behind a book.   
  
'I want the necklace back.' He said.   
  
Jim's face fell, and his eyebrows knitted together. It was like watching something hatch from a smooth egg. Something with teeth. The fury peeked through the cracks, growing until it consumed the façade.   
  
'No. You gave it to me. It's mine. You are  _mine_ .'   
  
'I'm not. You can hold me, but you'll never possess me.'   
  
There were striking snakes which moved slower than Moriarty's hand. The slap took Sherlock by surprise, snapping his head back and to the side. Moran was on him a breath later, wrenching his arms behind the chair and holding him in place.   
  
'Do you have any idea what I've done to you, Sherlock?' Moriarty demanded.   
  
Sherlock glared up at him through his fringe and said nothing.   
  
'I've changed you. Do you get that?' He waved his hand, and the food on the table changed into sad-looking takeaway. It smelled like McDonald's, actually, and Sherlock's stomach lurched. He'd always hated that smell. 'I can change things. I can make them different. I made you different. You're not a man anymore, Sherlock. That's why you change every morning. That's why you can't change back without the lake. You aren't human. You're a swan. I made you a swan. That's you're true form, now. This,  _this_ ,' He gestured at Sherlock, the motion taking in his whole body. 'Is the disguise. That's what you are, without me. You're nothing but a long-necked duck! You need me! I make you whole. I make you more!'   
  
'You make me sick.'   
  
Moriarty slapped him again, so hard Sherlock feared his neck might snap.   
  
'Throw him back in the lake.' Moriarty snarled. 'No food for a week. And take this.'   
  
He threw a leather cord to Moran, who caught it one-handed and grinned.   
  
Jim glared down at Sherlock, his eyes black pits of hate. 'I want his little policeman grounded until further notice. Nobody's flying anywhere.'   
  
Sherlock sneered up at Moriarty, then spat in his face. Moriarty gestured with one hand, Sherlock felt Seb move behind him, then everything went black.   
  
~~~   
  
'I don't…understand.' Said Mrs Hooper. 'You think your friend's abduction has something to do with Molly?'   
  
She was sat on the sofa, her husband beside her with his arm around her shoulders. John was sitting in a plush chair opposite, holding a cup of tea in his hands and not drinking it. 'I think it's a possibility.' He said.   
  
'How? I mean, it's been so long.' Mr Hooper looked lost and a little frightened.   
  
'I know, and…I know it sounds strange. But this is pretty much the only lead we've got. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something, about Molly, about how she disappeared.'   
  
'We've told the police everything we know.' Mrs Hooper protested. 'We wouldn't hold anything back. We would never do anything that could keep them from finding her.'   
  
'I know. But circumstances have changed, now. Please, all I'm asking for is a little time. If we're right, and these two events are connected, there's a chance I could find them both.'   
  
Mr Hooper pressed his lips together. 'It's been six years. What makes you think there's anything to find?'   
  
John fixed his eyes on the man. 'For the same reason you do. I'm not going to believe he's dead until I see the body with my own eyes. Until I have proof otherwise, Sherlock is still alive and I will keep searching for him.'   
  
Mr Hooper heaved a long breath. 'Okay. Yes. What do you want to know?'   
  
'Did Molly know a boy named Carl Powers?'   
  
Mr and Mrs Hooper exchanged a glance, and Mrs Hooper frowned in concentration. 'I…think…wasn't he that swimmer boy? The one she--'   
  
'Oh yes! Oh…oh he died, didn't he? In London at that tournament.'   
  
'That's him.' John confirmed. 'Molly knew him?'   
  
'Tutored him, yes.' Said Mrs Hooper. 'They weren't close. He was having trouble with his science classes. They were going to take him off the team, so his teacher asked Molly if she'd mind working with him.'   
  
'He wasn't happy about it.' Mr Hooper added. 'She was two years younger than him. She said she hated it, but she was getting credits for it. She came home crying once or twice. We tried to convince her to give it up, but she said if Jimmy could do it, she could.'   
  
John perked up. 'Jimmy?'   
  
'A boy from Carl's year.' Mrs Hooper explained. 'He worked with them sometimes, for the bits Molly's year hadn't covered yet.'   
  
'Do you remember anything about him?'   
  
She shrugged. 'We never met him. Molly talked about him sometimes. Carl was horrible to him, apparently. He was apparently a very clever boy. Quiet, too. Molly said he didn't have any friends.'   
  
'He wasn't local.' Mr Hooper went on. 'Irish, I think. The other children laughed at his accent.'   
  
'Were he and Molly close?' John asked.   
  
Mrs Hooper shook her head. 'She liked him, I think. A bit, anyway. But he never really spoke to her. You know how it is with children. Two years is as good as two decades for them.'   
  
John remembered the sprawling gap he'd felt between him and Sherlock growing up, and his stomach fell. Three years. May as well have been a lifetime. God they were so  _stupid_ .   
  
'What was Jimmy's surname, do you remember?'   
  
'Morse…or something?' Said Mrs Hooper. 'Began with an M, I'm fairly sure. Or an N…'   
  
'Morgan. Or Morris.' Mr Hooper suggested. 'Mor-something.'   
  
John nodded. 'Thank you.'   
  
'You don't…think he could have done it?' Mrs Hooper looked worried.   
  
John sighed. 'I can't rule it out. I can't rule anything out, not when I've got so little. Thank you for your help.'   
  
Mr Hooper put a hand on John's arm to stop him standing up. 'If you can…find her. Please, just…just make sure she knows we never really stopped looking.'   
  
John covered the hand with his own. 'I'll do everything I can.'   
  
He left the house and got into the car. Mike sat behind the wheel, looking at him.   
  
'How did it go?'   
  
John smiled, and it very nearly reached his eyes this time. 'I might have something for Mycroft to play with.'   
  
Mike nodded. 'Good. The crash site?'   
  
'Please.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piplover: I first discovered Pennin Ink through Bound in Gold, like many on LJ. I fell instantly in love with her work, and followed her next story happily. But suddenly there was a lull, and then a cry for help, as the words had seemed to stop telling their story to her.
> 
> On a whim I offered her a chance to talk things over, as I know that's how I get my creative juices flowing. She agreed, and after struggling to get Skype up and running... I waited. And waited. And then she remembered that we were supposed to talk that night rather then her run off to the zoo.
> 
> Through that initial contact, to stumbling over our feet as we found our rythm, I'm so happy to have been able to work with Pennin Ink on this story and others. Her creativity and ability to tell a story is amazing, and being able to brain storm, contribute, and beta her work is a joy.


	7. Chapter Seven

Sherlock tilted his head back against the wall of his shelter and tracked the moon's progress across the sky. He listened to the regular grind and crunch of Greg's boots as the PC paced in tense agitation along the beach. He'd been on the move constantly since Moran had dumped Sherlock in the lake, and Sherlock was feeling exhausted just watching him.   
  
Molly sat near the shore, absently toying with the tides and reshaping her boundary little by little while keeping an eye on Greg.   
  
For his part, Greg was muttering to himself, moving his arms as though he were wearing too-tight sleeves, even though he'd removed his jacket and was in just his sleeveless t-shirt by then. Sherlock could practically see the anger radiating from Greg's skin, and he pulled his knees up to his chest protectively, pressing more fully against the wall. The clearing was quiet, both Sherlock and Molly waiting for the spark that would ignite the powder keg.   
  
They didn't have long to wait, as Greg came to a stop, his hands clenched into fists at his side.   
  
'No! No, fuck, he can't do this to me!' Greg span round and aimed a vicious kick at his tree. 'I'll fucking kill 'im! Him and his guard dog! I'm gonna wring that prissy little neck of his!' He continued his abuse of the tree, slamming his fist into the bark until it came back bloody and swollen.   
  
'FUCK!' He shrieked into the night.   
  
'Greg, please.' Molly said from the lake. 'Please just, come here. Let me help you.'   
  
'No. Piss off. I wanna bleed. I fucking deserve, just once, to decide what happens to my fucking body!'   
  
Sherlock flinched at that. He tucked his knees more tightly against his chest and wrapped his arms around them. 'I'm sorry.' He mumbled. 'I didn't know he'd--'   
  
'Oh just shut it, would you?' Greg snapped. Sherlock flinched again and drew away from Greg.   
  
'Always so high and mighty, always with the smart answers. Sherlock Holmes, the great brain. Well you didn't fucking think this one through, did you? Huh? You go running that pretty little mouth of yours and I'm the one pays the price!'   
  
'Greg, stop it!' Molly scolded him.   
  
'He doesn't need you defending him all the time! Christ's sake, he's not an infant!'   
  
'I'm sorry!' Sherlock sobbed, but the sound was muffled by his shirtsleeves, where he'd hidden his face.   
  
'He needs a little support! I'm not turning my back on him just because he annoyed Jim!'   
  
'Annoyed? He clipped my fucking wings, Moll!'   
  
'Jim did! Sherlock had nothing to do with it!'   
  
'Oh balls to that! You saw the look on Jim's face! You tell me how supportive you are after three days with nothing to eat!'   
  
'We'll get by, Greg. Dammit, would you just calm down?'   
  
'Calm down? Calm down?! You know what would calm me down? Flying! Away! From! This! Dump!' He punctuated each word with another blow to the tree trunk. Sherlock huddled in on himself and tried to keep the tears behind his eyelids.   
  
'Greg, please!'   
  
'No! No, Molly, I'm done. I'm just fucking done with all this! I can't take it anymore! I want the sky back!'   
  
Something deep inside of Sherlock snapped. It was too much. It was two months of too much. Greg's shouting and Molly's cajoling and Jim's smirking and Moran's fists all tumbled and swirled together until the world was spinning out of control under his feet, and his brain kept repeating every second of that dinner in excruciating detail and it was happening again. It was everywhere and everything and it was killing him, splitting him open and scraping his mind raw. But there would be no Mycroft this time. No mum, no Harry, no Ann, no violin to force order on the chaos, no John to hold him until the shaking went away.   
  
He was shaking now, so hard it made his teeth chatter. He felt the storm rising inside, bubbling up through his throat and he couldn't hold it in any longer. He was just so tired, he felt like he was breaking, fracturing like a frozen lake in a thaw.   
  
The tears were salty, and they stung against his chapped lips. With is head bowed over his crossed arms, he could hide his face, hide what his body was doing until it was done. But these weren't the tears he'd cried for John, silent and biddable, these were dragged from his chest, one by one, and they clutched at his lungs and squeezed his heart and blocked his throat, and his shoulders were heaving and oh God he tried to stop them, but he had no more control left and wasn't it time? After everything, after all this time, didn't he deserve, just once, to give up?   
  
Greg's ranting devolved into something incoherent at the edge of Sherlock's hearing, punctuated with Molly's voice raised to a tone he'd never heard before.   
  
'Would you just SHUT THE FUCK UP and look at him?'   
  
Odd. Since when did Molly curse? He was tempted to look up, to focus on the others, but if they saw…they couldn't see. He couldn't let them see him this way.   
  
Then there was an incredibly wet hand on his shoulder, and he flinched.   
  
'For fuck's sake, kid, look at me.'   
  
Sherlock shook his head and pressed harder into his forearms.   
  
'Sherlock. Please.' Greg's voice was soft, gentle. 'Please stop hiding from me.'   
  
An index finger pressed against his chin and he followed its upward path, lifting his head until he could focus his tear-reddened eyes on Greg.   
  
'There you are.' Greg smiled. He was drenched head to toe in lake water, and there was a massive puddle on the ground where he'd been pacing. 'Christ…I never saw…I'm so sorry Sherlock.'   
  
Sherlock tried to inhale, but the air stuttered and caught in his mouth and throat. 'I didn't mean to--'   
  
'I know. God…you're too clever by half, mate. The way you talk and throw your weight around, it's just so easy to forget.'   
  
Sherlock blinked, and more tears tumbled across his eyelids. 'Forget what?'   
  
Greg lowered his eyes. 'How young you are.'   
  
'I'm not--'   
  
'Don't. Don't start that with me. You bloody well are. Not even twenty years old and…this.' He waved his arm helplessly at the clearing. 'Fuck but you've got no business being as strong as you've been. You act like you're something more than human but you're still a kid.'   
  
He tugged Sherlock forward until Sherlock's face was pressed against the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock could feel the heat from Greg's skin, could smell the man's sweat and his blood.   
  
'You can't do this anymore, do you hear me?' Greg whispered. 'You can't keep this from us. When it gets bad, when it starts hurting too much, you've got to let us in, Sherlock. I know it's hard. But don't lock us out, okay?'   
  
Sherlock balled his hand up in Greg's shirt and sobbed into his shoulder. 'I'm sorry.' He gasped around the lump in his throat. 'I'm sorry.'   
  
'I know. It's not your fault. I shouldn't have shouted at you. Christ, I was a complete shit. I'm sorry.'   
  
Sherlock licked his lips, felt the rough and broken skin of them against his tongue, and pressed his face into Greg's pectoral.   
  
'I'm scared.' He confessed. It was the smallest his voice had ever been.   
  
Greg sighed into Sherlock's hair, then pressed his lips to Sherlock's scalp. 'So am I.' He whispered.   
  
~~~   
  
'Anything?' John asked, slipping the helmet off his head.   
  
Mycroft made a noncommittal grunt before looking up from the papers arrayed along the kitchen table. He started, then narrowed his eyes.   
  
'A motorbike, John, really?'   
  
Harry looked up with eyes like soup plates and Ann slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the snort.   
  
'What?' John glanced down at the helmet in his hand. 'Oh, yeah. Mike's got this mate. Thought it'd be useful to learn.'   
  
'And is it?' Mycroft demanded.   
  
John shrugged. 'Fast, far more manoeuvrable than a car, could come in handy. That's not important. Anything on Jimmy?'   
  
'Oh yes.' Ann said. 'A name.'   
  
John's eyebrows rose and he sat down heavily between Harry and his mum, eyes trained on Mycroft. 'Well?'   
  
'James Moriarty. Transferred from Ireland at the beginning of Year Eight, filed for a transfer back in the middle of Year Ten. Bright. Incredibly bright. Bright enough to make it look like he wasn't half so intelligent as he was.'   
  
'What do you mean?'   
  
Mycroft shook his head pityingly. 'John, think. It's obvious. James Moriarty manipulated the system, deliberately masked his intelligence so as not to draw attention to himself. There's really no way he'd have remained among his peers otherwise.'   
  
John drew a report toward him. 'How can you tell?'   
  
Mycroft scoffed. 'Really, John. Sherlock did it all the time.'   
  
'He was the top in his year.' John protested.   
  
'He could have been the top in the next three years above him if he chose.' Mycroft said. 'He chose otherwise, and deliberately set out to appear less capable than he was.'   
  
'Did you do that?' John asked.   
  
Mycroft shrugged. 'To an extent. Image really is everything. It wouldn't do to show one's hand too readily. But if you know what to look for, the stratagem becomes obvious, almost laughable. To a man such as myself, it is blatantly apparent that our master Moriarty was openly mocking his educators throughout his schooling. The similarities are almost painfully striking.'   
  
John blinked. 'You're saying he's like you. Like Sherlock.'   
  
'In this way, yes.'   
  
'But lonely.' Ann said. 'His reports never mention friends. They never mention other students at all apart from the disciplinary ones. He was the victim of quite a lot of bullying.'   
  
'Including a particularly vicious campaign by a Mr Carl Powers.' Mycroft put in.   
  
'But the police never investigated it, so the connection was never reported.' Harry added.   
  
'When did he return to Ireland?' John asked.   
  
'He didn't.' Said Mycroft.   
  
John jerked his head up. 'Explain.'   
  
'He never registered at any other school.' Ann said. 'At least, not under his real name.'   
  
'He never registered at all under his real name.' Said Harry. 'Dropped off the sodding planet.'   
  
John raised his eyes to Mycroft, begging silently for something, anything.   
  
Mycroft sighed. 'I think James Moriarty is a murderer. I believe it was he who killed Carl Powers. Under that theory, the disappearance of Molly Hooper becomes infinitely more suspicious. I cannot entertain the idea that these incidents are unconnected. John,' He levelled his gaze at the young soldier, unblinking and steady. 'I think we've found the man who took my brother.'   
  
John looked down at a photograph of a teenaged boy with large, dark eyes and a too-wide smile. He picked it up and held it up to his face.   
  
'Then,' he said, gripping the photo hard enough to make it crease. 'James Moriarty is a dead man.'   
  
~~~   
  
Usually, when he dreamed, he dreamed of Harry.   
  
He didn't intend it, but he never did find a way to master his dreams. It was only that he tended to dream of music, and often the sounds were joined by pictures, and generally the pictures he associated with music were all of Harry. He'd not wanted to lose practise by the time John returned, and had found in Harry a willing and enthusiastic dance partner. And she had John's eyes. It was almost, so very nearly, close to something close enough.   
  
So they'd danced. For two years, he'd danced with Harry in hopes of dancing with John. And now he dreamed of those afternoons and the giddy whirl of Harry's sundress skirts and the dizzying heights of violin and piccolo and the easy rhythm of a waltz. Harry was the prelude.   
  
He never saw John in his dreams, though his dream self often wondered where John was. But the man himself only ever appeared in the hazy between time, not dreaming and not awake but hovering on the boundary of the two. Sherlock would gradually regain control of his mind, and he would summon John to him. He both loathed and lived for those few precious, stolen moments when his human body could welcome John into its heat, when he could lay himself bare and invite John's eyes, his hands, his lips to peruse him at their will.   
  
He always awoke to a swan's body, desperate and burning and so, so angry. He woke into a nightmare, every single time.   
  
'Sherlock! Sherlock!' The whisper jarred him from a feverish vision of John's hands stroking along his bared thighs, and he nearly gasped at the unfairness of it.   
  
*Greg! For God's sake, what is it?*   
  
'Get you. Such a grumpy puss.'   
  
*Out with it!*   
  
'We've got movement.' Greg tilted his head to indicate the house, and Sherlock whipped round to see it.   
  
Jim was getting into the sleek black car he always took to London.   
  
*He's not taking you this time?* Sherlock asked.   
  
Greg shook his head. 'Still grounded. Can't fly, can't spy. Little Jimmy's left us all alone.'   
  
*Must be an emergency. He'd never dare leave us otherwise.*   
  
'Could be a trap.' Greg pointed out. 'Explains why he didn't unground me for the mission.'   
  
*I was really trying not to think of that.* Sherlock groused.   
  
Greg rolled his eyes. 'What if he's back before sunset? London's not far from here. I could fly there in a couple hours. If I could fly.'   
  
*You could?* Sherlock snapped his head to look at Lestrade. *How far is it?*   
  
Greg shrugged. 'Distances are weird in the air. But, I don't know. Twenty miles? Thirty? South of here. I bet you could fly it, with a bit of wind at your back.'   
  
Sherlock blinked. London. He could get to London. He hadn't dared contemplate the possibility.   
  
*Wait.* He said. *How is that possible? There's no sign of civilisation for miles, I've seen it. When you take me above the treeline.*   
  
Greg smiled and shook his head. 'Not as easy as that, mate. Jimmy's old teacher, he hid us away. It's like…like an illusion gone firm. There's this line, right? I fly through it every time Jimmy sends me out. It's a border, but stronger than the ones we've got to deal with. It feels old.' He shivered a bit and shook his head. 'And deep. Like looking down a chasm. It's--' He broke off and bit his lip. 'Look, I never met the guy, okay? Jim did away with him before I got the chance. But there's a reason for the way Moll won't talk about him. Jim is sick, yeah. He's twisted and evil and too bloody dangerous by half. But the Old Man, Sherlock…I can feel him. Every time I cross that line. We're in his world. Not Jim's, not ours. This isn't England, it's something else. He made this place. We're walking on his turf.'   
  
Sherlock tilted his head. *But the Old Man is dead.*   
  
Greg shook his head. 'He's not. There's something of him left over. It's here. It's keeping us hidden and it won’t let us go. When you pass the boundary, you'll feel it too. Jim is small time by comparison.'   
  
Sherlock trained an eye on Greg. *When I cross?*   
  
Greg nodded. 'When we're free.'   
  
Sherlock nodded. He looked up at the sky. *Late afternoon. You should get started if we're to eat tonight.*   
  
Greg rolled his eyes, but he dutifully rose to his feet and went to gather up supplies to build a fire. 'Sodding Jim. You know, if he'd let me keep smoking we'd have this up in a tick.'   
  
*You smoke?*   
  
'I did. Before Master Nutcase up there stuck me in a fucking dungeon. I shit you not, kid. It was an actual, honest-to-God dungeon. With rats. Moran took my last packet of fags when he threw me in. Haven't had one since.' He shuddered. 'Worst six months of my life, that. Got a bit easier after that, though. A bit.'   
  
Sherlock shrugged at that. Swans could shrug, it just took a bit of practise. *Molly, are you nearly ready?*   
  
*Got some. Just a mo' please.*   
  
Sherlock grimaced, then turned to Greg. *If he does stay away tonight…do you think it's time?*   
  
Greg paused, a bundle of branches in his arms. 'I…don't know. Maybe. Are you sure you want to go in there, mate?'   
  
*No. But I have no choice. We're so close to my Key, Greg, I know it. It's time to take the next step.*   
  
Greg sighed and dropped the wood to the ground. 'He'll have defences. No way in Hell he doesn't lock that place up tight.'   
  
*Then I suggest we put my theory to the test.*   
  
Greg nodded. 'Whatever happens in there, Sherlock…you're not alone. You do know that, right?'   
  
Sherlock paused, for once glad his face could express little to nothing, then drifted further into the lake to await the moonrise.   
  
~~~   
  
'Mmm. That feels better.' Mycroft allowed his lips to spread into a slight smile.   
  
'Told you.' Harry replied, dabbing the cool flannel against Mycroft's forehead again. 'You've been staring at that tiny, tiny type for too long. I won't even talk about the screens.'   
  
'When did you turn health-care professional?' Mycroft asked.   
  
Harry smirked. 'When you decided to take over as the recklessly unhealthy one of us.'   
  
Mycroft paused, then lifted his hand to wrap his fingers around Harry's wrist. 'I'm glad you came back, Harry.'   
  
Harry smiled down at him. 'So am I.' She looked out the window and paused. 'Strange…' She muttered.   
  
'What is?' Mycroft didn't bother to open his eyes.   
  
'That bird out there. In the garden.'   
  
'What about it?'   
  
Harry frowned. 'It seems stupid, but I could swear I've seen it before. It looks like a hawk or something. One of the big ones with scary beaks.'   
  
Mycroft shrugged and pressed his face into the cool cloth. 'Maybe it has a nest nearby.'   
  
Harry stared at the bird a moment longer. 'Yes…I suppose it must do.' She tore her gaze from the window and back to Mycroft.   
  
~~~   
'What do you reckon?' Asked Greg, tearing off a bit of fish and popping it into his mouth. The fire crackled cheerfully between them. 'Shall we give it a go?'   
  
Sherlock nodded. 'Jim said magic was all or nothing, that the part is not the whole, but we've proven him wrong before. And I think there's a lot about Molly he doesn't fully understand. He didn't imprison her. Who knows what he didn't see?'   
  
'So…you want to take me out of the lake.' Molly said. 'You can't. We've tried this, over and over. I can't step beyond the water.'   
  
Sherlock smirked. 'Yes, you can.'   
  
Molly frowned at him. 'I can't. Stop being difficult.'   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You can move past the boundary, Molly. I've seen it. You lose your shape, but  _you_  still cross. Just, in water form.'   
  
'But I always flow back. Always.'   
  
'But what if you couldn't?' Sherlock proposed. 'What if we cut you off from the lake?'   
  
'How do you mean?' Greg asked.   
  
Sherlock smiled. 'We take a piece of her. Like we were planning with the water. It's not the lake, Greg. It's Molly. Molly is the power, she's the thing keeping us here.'   
  
Molly went red. 'You can't think that! I'd never--no! If I had that kind of power I'd have let you go ages ago!'   
  
Sherlock sighed. 'I know that. But you said it yourself. You can be compelled. Jim can make you dance, Molly, you don't think he can make you bind us? It was probably built into your spell. I doubt you'd even be aware he was doing it.'   
  
Molly paled then, and she looked down at her shaking hands. 'You mean I…I did this?'   
  
Sherlock shook his head, and Greg reached over to take her hand.   
  
'No, Moll.' Greg said. 'The Old Man did it. And Jim. You had nothing to do with it.'   
  
He turned to Sherlock. 'So…how do we do it?'   
  
Sherlock studied Molly for a bit. 'We take one of the bowls we took from our food deliveries. Molly could…I don't know…spit in it?'   
  
Greg arched an eyebrow. 'You think we should carry her spit around with us?'   
  
'Fingernail clippings?'   
  
'Christ, Sherlock, next you'll be suggesting she wee in it!'   
  
Sherlock considered. 'That would give us more volume to work with.'   
  
'I didn't mean really!'   
  
'Guys.' Said Molly.   
  
'Well what do you suggest, Greg?'   
  
'Whatever option doesn't involve piss.'   
  
'Guys?'   
  
'Toenails, then. Actually, there's a thought. Do Molly's toenails grow? Can she clip them?'   
  
'Guys!' Molly shouted. Both men turned to look at her.   
  
'If you're done talking about me like I’m not here, may I make a suggestion?'   
  
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and Greg cleared his throat and waved a hand at her to go on.   
  
'Thank you. I was going to say,' She tugged on her ponytail, lifting the soft brown tresses into the air. 'I could just cut off some of my hair.'   
  
Neither man needed to look at the other to know they were both identical shades of red. So they didn't.   
  
Greg silently got one of the bowls they'd stolen and gave it to Sherlock, who held it out to Molly. Molly lifted a clump of hair, took a breath, and closed her eyes. She moved her open hand against the hair so it rested against the outer edge of her little finger, then with a twitch of concentration the hand elongated and flattened into a blade, which she sliced through the hair, holding the newly cut locks in her other hand as the blade returned to its original shape. She placed the hair in the bowl, and Sherlock licked his lips, then moved the bowl past the shoreline.   
  
The hairs in the bowl instantly turned to water as soon as they were over dry land. Greg and Sherlock watched the bowl and Molly intently.   
  
The water remained where it was. The hair did not grow back.   
  
The trio heaved a collective sigh.   
  
'Greg…it has to be you.' Sherlock said quietly.   
  
Greg nodded. 'I know.' He took the bowl and walked to the treeline. Sherlock followed, Molly looking on anxiously from the edge of her prison.   
  
They passed through the trees together, following a trail Greg knew by heart. It wasn't terribly long before Greg came to a complete stop, his breath hitching.   
  
'This is it.' He breathed. 'One more step…that's it.'   
  
Sherlock put a hand on Greg's shoulder, and Greg raised his own hand to cover it. 'If this works…'   
  
'I know.' Sherlock said. 'It changes everything.'   
  
Greg took a deep breath, and stepped forward.   
  
Nothing happened.   
  
Greg blinked. He looked at his hand. He patted his chest, his arm, his leg. He raised his hand and felt his face, his fingers brushing over every feature, shaking like a wind-tossed leaf.   
  
'I…it…'   
  
'Take another.' Sherlock urged.   
  
Greg took another step. And another. After one more, he let out a laugh, rich and wild and raw. 'It worked! Sherlock! Look at me!' He whirled round, careful not to spill the water. 'Look at me! Look!'   
  
'I see you.'   
  
'Ha HA! I'm human! Do you see? Can you see it? Look at this, I've got fingers!' His hand flew back to his face. 'Got a nose…lips. Sherlock I've got lips! And eyebrows!'   
  
'You look incredible.' Sherlock agreed.   
  
Greg grinned. 'Sherlock, if I didn't think it would somehow destroy the world or something, I would kiss you right now.'   
  
Sherlock blushed and looked down. 'Just avoid my lips.'   
  
Greg stilled, looking at him quizzically. 'You don't…you don't mean that, do you?'   
  
Sherlock shrugged. 'If you like.'   
  
Greg beamed and surged toward Sherlock. His lips found Sherlock's forehead, both his cheeks, and his nose for good measure.   
  
'You're incredible, kid.' Greg whispered, pulling Sherlock into a crushing hug. 'You're…truly incredible.'   
  
He pulled away, holding Sherlock at arm's length, his face bright and beaming. 'Now, let's get into that house.'   
  
~~~   
  
John was tired. He was so, so tired. He knew he needed to sleep, that his body would only betray him if he didn't tend to it before going on a mission, but he was so wired he doubted he'd be able to nod off.   
  
In his stupor, he didn't realise his feet were taking him to Sherlock's bedroom until he was standing at the door. He went in, and the first thing he saw was the hook on the wall where Sherlock had kept the swan pendant when he wasn't wearing it.   
  
John closed his eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass, then walked over to Sherlock's bookshelf. His fingers ran over text books, science journals, true crime books, and a very sparse selection of fiction, including the complete series of  _Sandman_  comics.   
  
He grabbed a text book at random and flopped onto Sherlock's bed, determined to read himself to sleep. He barely got past the first page before his eyes began to slip closed. The last thing he saw before sleep overtook him was a large bird, a falcon maybe, seemingly staring at him from the other side of the window.   
  
~~~   
  
'I don't like this.' Greg muttered, clutching the bowl of Molly's water close to his chest. 'No agent. He always leaves an agent. This feels like a trap, Sherlock.'   
  
Sherlock nodded, but he continued climbing the hill, and Greg kept following him. 'We have no choice. Our Keys are in there, somewhere.'   
  
'He'll know. He has to know. He wants us to go in.'   
  
'Or he's just that cocky.' Sherlock pointed out. 'Or it was that big of an emergency. He might just think you're helpless without your wings.'   
  
'Jim?'   
  
Sherlock sighed. 'He's not a god, Greg. He's barely a man. You let your fear give him too much credit.'   
  
'Bollocks. He's managed to cage you, hasn't he?'   
  
Sherlock paused, his foot at the edge of the back garden. 'I'm not a god either.'   
  
He shifted his grip on his own bowl. They'd need to be careful, or Molly was going to run out of hair before long.   
  
'What makes you think this'll work?' Greg demanded.   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You heard Molly. Her water loses all its force when it gets near him.'   
  
'Yeah, so?'   
  
'So,' Sherlock said. 'Have you ever seen him actually touch the lake? Has he ever made contact with the water, in all the time you've been here?'   
  
Greg paused, then frowned. 'Not that I've seen.'   
  
'Nor I. I think he and Molly are anathema to each other. I think there's something in how the Old Man imprisoned her…something that prohibits contact. '   
  
Greg scrunched his forehead. 'You mean, like, he was worried about Jim being a horny little bastard and took steps to make sure he didn't take any liberties?'   
  
Sherlock shrugged. 'If that helps you sleep at night.'   
  
Greg sighed. 'You're cold, do you know that? Sometimes, just when I think we've gotten under that thick skin of yours, you just turn so cold.'   
  
Sherlock paused. Then he said, 'There's a door round the back, it leads into the kitchen in the servant's quarters. That's where Jim took me last time. Judging by the lights we see coming from the house, I'd hazard a guess his study is in the attic, but I want you to check the basement as well. We best hurry, we haven't got much night.'   
  
They made the rest of the way to the door in silence. There, they paused, each scarcely breathing.   
  
'This is too easy, Sherlock.'   
  
Sherlock nodded. 'I'm doing it anyway.' He held out a hand and slowly, slowly lowered it to the doorknob.   
  
'ACK!' The flash of light left a bright red afterimage behind his eyelids, and the concussive force sent him sprawling on his back. He clutched at his hand, hissing through the pain as the skin bubbled and blistered.   
  
'Shit!' Greg cried. 'Kid!'   
  
'The…water!' Sherlock gasped. The pain was fogging his brain, clouding his vision.   
  
'I've got it. It's okay.'   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'The water!'   
  
'Oh!' And Greg gingerly took Sherlock's arm by the wrist and lowered the angry looking skin into the liquid.   
  
The soothing sensation was instantaneous and familiar. Sherlock's skin quieted and began to regain its normal colour. He whimpered as the healing came to a stop, far sooner than Molly's touch would have done. His hand still stung, the pain almost identical to a chemical burn he'd received when he was sixteen.   
  
'Will you be okay?'   
  
Sherlock nodded and struggled to his knees, clutching the burned hand to his chest. 'I'll live. Try the--the water.'   
  
Greg hissed through his teeth and adopted a pleading expression. 'Are you sure about this?'   
  
Sherlock nodded. 'We've…established the…control,' Oh Christ it hurt. He tried to push the pain out of his mind and went on, 'Time to introduce a variable. Just…dip your hand in the water then try the door.'   
  
Greg cringed, but he lowered his hand into the bowl, moving it about until every bit of skin down to his wrist was glistening and wet under the moonlight.   
  
'You damn well better be right about this, Sherlock.' He muttered, and he moved his hand toward the door.   
  
Halfway there he stopped. 'It's…pushing.'   
  
'Can you push harder?'   
  
He shook his head. 'Not sure. Closer I get, the harder it pushes.'   
  
'Try.' Sherlock snarled.   
  
'Well help me!'   
  
Sherlock gritted his teeth, then he covered his good hand in water and moved to Lestrade. He took a deep breath and slipped his hand over Greg's. Together, they pushed.   
  
It was like…well it wasn't  _like_  anything. Sherlock could find no experience with which to draw a comparison. It was as though the air itself had congealed around their hands and was growing ever more solid the closer their skin came to the shielded door.   
  
'Harder.' Sherlock gritted out, struggling against whatever force kept Moriarty's power and Molly's apart.   
  
'Fuck…feels like…crushing my hand.'   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'No, bone crushing feels nothing like this. This is just pressure. Push!'   
  
Greg kept trying, but the pain was obvious over every inch of his face. 'Christ…Christ this hurts…'   
  
And now Sherlock  _could_  feel his bones beginning to buckle under the strain. Metacarpals shifted and ground together, and his vision whited out for a moment.   
  
'Oh…fuck this!' Greg cried, and with a small splash he upended his bowl over both their hands. The concussive force doubled, snapping them back, then buckled under the onslaught of Molly's presence. The barrier between them and the knob wavered, and in that one moment of vulnerability both their hands met the cool metal and twisted.   
  
The door threw itself open and they tumbled over one another, landing on the floor in an undignified heap, both breathing heavily and clutching at their hands.   
  
'Ow.' Greg moaned. 'Ow, fucking ow! We…are never…doing that again, clear?'   
  
'Relax.' Sherlock said. 'We got in, didn't we?'   
  
'My hand! I'll be lucky if I can pick up a pen after this.'   
  
Sherlock glared at him as they both got to their feet. 'Just give it to Molly when we're done and she'll sort it out.'   
  
'Even she's got limits.'   
  
'Quit whining. It's hardly as bad as all that.'   
  
Greg went quiet. Then, 'It was really that bad, huh? The changing, I mean. I never saw.'   
  
Sherlock tried to suppress a shudder. 'It was torture, Greg. Extreme pain is sort of the point.'   
  
'Fair enough. You're to the attic, then?'   
  
Sherlock nodded. 'Try the cellar. Whichever of us is finished first will meet up with the other. Got it?'   
  
'Got it. Good luck, kid.'   
  
They separated. It took Sherlock a little searching before he found the semi-concealed door leading up to the attic.   
  
Which was, of course, locked. Sherlock sighed and let his forehead fall against the distressed wood. Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the door, then fell to his knees to examine the lock.   
  
It was old. Older than the locks he was used to picking, and he wasn't sure if that made it easier or more difficult.   
  
'Right. First things first.' He muttered, then he set off in search of something which would make do as an ad hoc lock pick.   
  
He found what he was looking for in a study in the main house. The entire room was covered in dust, nothing touched, nothing moved in at least two years.   
  
'Two years…when he got Greg.' He tried to imagine it, to piece together the story from what he could see.''   
  
'The Old Man…Moran killed him two years ago. Before or after they took Greg?' He wanted John. John would know what to say to kick Sherlock's brain into focus. He'd say the right thing or the perfect wrong thing and…   
  
'Two…years.' The dust circulated in the room, stinging at his eyes and making them water. He sniffed the tears back and swiped at his nose with his sleeve. 'When I kissed John. Apart from Molly it all starts two years ago.'   
  
He circled the room, taking in every detail shouting at him from the corners, from the bookcases, from the coffee table and the chair legs.   
  
'Six years ago…Carl Powers. He took Molly…why did he take Molly? Why her?'   
  
He looked up at the ceiling and gulped. He gripped the letter opener in his hand more tightly, then he went to the kitchen to add to his lock picking arsenal before, with only a little hesitation, making his way back up to the locked door concealing the possible answers to his questions.   
  
~~~   
  
'Alright.' Mike said, wiping some of the mud from his jacket. 'I think that should just about do me for motorbikes.'   
  
John smirked at him. 'What's wrong? Scared of a little risk?' He revved the engine and Mike jumped back.   
  
Mike rolled his eyes. 'Do you really think this thing is going to help you find Sherlock?'   
  
John frowned down at the handlebars. 'I don't think. At all. When I'm riding it. It's nice to…stop thinking.'   
  
Mike nodded. 'Fair enough.'   
  
John licked his lips, then scanned the surrounding area. He couldn't help it, really. Part of him, a big part, was still abroad, still waiting on that one unlucky moment.   
  
His eye caught movement in a tree, and he went still.   
  
'John?'   
  
'Do you see that, Mike?'   
  
Mike followed John's gaze and shrugged. 'What? The bird?'   
  
'Falcon.' John said. He wasn't much of a bird enthusiast, but one of the guys in his unit had been keen on Falconry. Apparently it was a thing in the army. 'I've seen it before.'   
  
'How can you tell?'   
  
John shrugged. 'Looks the same. Think this is its territory?'   
  
Mike frowned at him. 'Does it matter?'   
  
John shrugged. 'Could do.'   
  
'Why?'   
  
John pointed up to the bird, eyes intent. 'Because I think it's got a bullet casing around its neck.'   
  
~~~   
  
Sherlock finally got through the lock and pushed the door open, then immediately closed it again. He stood for a moment and breathed, one hand braced on the door, the other on the doorknob. When his pulse had returned to normal, he slowly opened the door again.   
  
The room was full of Sherlock. His own face gazed out at him from every wall. School photos, surveillance stills, there were even some he recognised from family photo albums. Red threads criss-crossed in a haphazard spider's web from image to image, and every bit of wall not papered with Sherlock was covered in notes.   
  
Sherlock ran a finger over a line of Moriarty's scrawl. It appeared the madman had attempted something approaching scientific note keeping, but it was clear his attention had wandered somewhere far more deranged in the process.   
  
'Two parts passion. Three parts denial. Subject responding favourably.' Devolved rapidly to spidery scribbles of 'Soon. Almost. Mine. First kiss last kiss. Not yet. Not yet!'   
  
Sherlock licked his lips. Kissing again. It was somewhere to start, certainly. He stepped gingerly through the attic room, weaving his way around the towering stacks of ancient, musty books. Spell books, most likely. Sherlock ignored them for now. Jim wasn't the sort to follow someone else's pattern.   
  
Words leapt out at him from the walls. His own name assaulted him again and again.   
  
_Dance for me Sherlock_ . They said. And,  _Smile for me, Sherlock._   
  
And, most worryingly,  _Bleed for me, Sherlock_ .   
  
Sherlock shuddered and tried to push the words out of his mind. There was a desk against the far wall. It was covered in papers, several of them in danger of spilling out onto the floor. Some already had. He knelt and picked one up, and nearly dropped it.   
  
_Sherlock I can taste you._   
  
He gagged and let go of the page, watching it flutter to the floor. He felt a wave of dizziness and braced a hand against the wall to steady himself. He felt something tacky under his palm and jerked his hand away. Reluctantly, he turned his head to see what he'd touched.   
  
_MINE_   
  
It was unmistakably blood. And it wasn't completely dry yet. Sherlock's head started spinning and he leaned against the desk, grateful that he could feel nothing but paper and wood grain against his skin.   
  
He looked down at the papers beneath him as he waited for his vision to clear. As it did, the words on the page became all too legible.   
  
_A: Are you scared?_   
_B: A little. But I'll be okay.  
A: You can't promise me that, J---  
B: Okay, then how about this? I'll try my damnedest to be okay.  
A: Your damnedest?  
B: John Wayne marathon with the lads. It did things to my brain.  
A: [Laughter] As long as you don't come home a cowboy.  
B: I promise. Just a soldier.  
A: Tell me, J---  
B: Eight months, twelve days.  
A: Sooner.  
B: I wish I could. I love you so much S-------  
A: I love you.  
B: I'll never get tired of hearing you say that.  
A: I'll never stop saying it.  
B: S-------, it's almost time.  
A: Don't say it.  
B: I promise._   
  
Sherlock thought he was going to be sick. Transcripts. The sadistic bastard had transcripts of every single fucking phone conversation they'd had. Sherlock tore through the pages. Sheet following sheet of his words, of John's words. Their own, private, precious words! And…and he'd  _scribbled_  all over them. His snide remarks marred every exchange, filling the negative space with ' _Silly little dog, he's always been mine_ .' And 'so sweet, I could just vomit.' And, repeated on every single page,  _'Say it! Say it! Say it!'_   
  
On the bottom of the pile was a sheet of paper with a single sentence scrawled over and over in red pen.   
  
_Say it, Johnny Boy._   
  
Sherlock screamed and swept all the papers off the desk, scattering them across the floor. He sat down heavily on the floor and curled in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest.   
  
'Fuck you, Jim.' He sobbed, his body rocking back in forth of its own accord. 'Fuck you. Fuck you, Jim.'   
  
He didn't know how long he sat there before a hand rested gently on his shoulder. He jumped and made a ridiculous squeaking noise in the back of his throat, but when he looked up it was Greg's face frowning down at him, and there was no madness in those soft brown eyes.   
  
'Christ, kid.' He whispered. 'This is…'   
  
'Get me out of here, Greg.' He breathed. 'Please. Oh God get me out of here.'   
  
'Hey, hey, hey.' Greg muttered, kneeling to pull Sherlock into his arms. 'It's okay. I've got you. You're okay.'   
  
'I'm not. I'm not. I can't--I can't do this. Greg, please!'   
  
'Shh, shh. It's alright. You don't have to. Just, just sit still and close your eyes. Can you do that for me?'   
  
Sherlock nodded and did as he was told.   
  
'Okay, now tell me what to look for.'   
  
'N-notes. Um…s-something like a recipe or, or a formula. And, um…log books. Charts. He's…he fancies himself a scientist. Um. It's a-about me. And…and John. Oh, God. John.'   
  
'Breathe, mate. Just breathe.'   
  
Sherlock put a hand over his chest and struggled to get oxygen into his body. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, he knew, but there seemed to be no way to stop it.   
  
'Sherlock. Sherlock, come on, focus. You can do this. Okay, how about this. Um…it's from the pile you chucked on the ground. Says "Copper was too small. Up the scale. Cast local, break global." That make sense to you?'   
  
Sherlock shook his head.   
  
'I'll write it down.'   
  
'No. No, take nothing. I'll remember. Oh God I'll remember.'   
  
'"First kiss last kiss?"'   
  
Sherlock shuddered. 'I don't know. I don't know!'   
  
'Okay, okay. Breathe. Um… okay here. "Keep the penalty steep. Only absolute commitment, no prizes for quitters. First kiss--" erm…it, uh, it says that quite a lot. "First kiss last kiss". About twenty times.'   
  
'I'll--' Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat. 'I'll remember it.'   
  
'Okay. This one says "Application of will directly proportionate to complexity of Key, attempts at eradication stalled…" um…it gets a bit…weird after that. Lot's of "mine" and "soon" and the like.'   
  
Sherlock crossed his arms over his knees and buried his face in them. 'No more, Greg. I can't.'   
  
'You can. We're close, Sherlock. Come on, kid. So Jim's insane. We knew that already. You can do this. You're so, so strong Sherlock. You can get past this. Come on we're burning moonlight.'   
  
They went on like that, working through what was left of the night with Moriarty's insane note keeping. Greg soon managed to work out what was useful to Sherlock and what wasn't, and he got better at choosing the relevant notes to read aloud. Sherlock, for his part, diligently committed every word to memory, even as they burned in his ears and his chest and behind his tightly closed eyes.   
  
And then Greg made a noise, hollow and broken.   
  
'What?' He looked up and opened his eyes.   
  
Greg licked his lips and shifted uncomfortably. 'Sherlock, I need to know you can handle this. Tell me if you think you can go on.'   
  
Sherlock clenched his eyes shut again and buried his face once more. 'Do it.'   
  
Greg sighed and began to read aloud. '"They kissed. I saw it with my own eyes. That god damned boy of his. I'm losing him. I won't lose him. He wants a kiss? That's what I'll give him. One kiss to make him or break him. I'll break him. I've got the--"' His voice broke, and Sherlock heard him draw a ragged breath. '"The copper in the cell. He can be my first--my first go. I don't need the old man. I can do this on my own. Sherlock Holmes is mine. Not long now. Won't she be glad I've brought her a new friend to play with? Fucking John Watson. Let's see how much he thinks a kiss is really worth."'   
  
He stopped reading. He was breathing heavily. 'Shit…'   
  
'Just after he'd killed the old man.' Sherlock observed. 'When he turned you. Copper…'   
  
'What about it?'   
  
Sherlock shook his head, and he could practically feel Jim's words oozing about in there.   
  
'Take me to the lake, Greg.' Sherlock whispered. 'Please. I can't breathe in here.'   
  
'Nor can I. Come on, mate. I'll help you.'   
  
Greg's arms were firm and solid, and if he kept his eyes closed and buried his nose in the crook of Greg's neck, Sherlock could almost fool himself into believing they were the extent of his world, that nothing existed beyond them.   
  
But Sherlock was never all that skilled at lying to himself, and he could no more stop himself looking than he could stop his heart. He opened his eyes, and they fell across bold, messy writing scrawled above the door frame. He caught his breath, and things began to slot together in his mind.   
  
_Mustn't stray from those precious lips._  They said.  _Break his heart and it stops beating._   
  
Sherlock whimpered, the sound escaping before he could stop it, and he pressed his face into Greg's chest. He stayed that way, deliberately blind to his surroundings, and let Greg guide him out of the house.   
  
When they reached the clearing, he collapsed into the water with a feeble splash, and Molly's arms rose from the shallows to hold him, pulling him against her as her body solidified. He could feel the tremors from his own body resonating in her arms.   
  
'What did he see?' She asked quietly, clutching him protectively to her breast.   
  
Greg shook his head and pulled the pair of them close. 'You don't want to know. And I don't want to tell you.'   
  
Molly gently stroked her fingers through Sherlock's hair, and he gradually allowed himself to relax into the cool comfort of her embrace. He tried to pull himself together, to focus himself on the work, but his brain was buzzing and spinning out of control and even as the facts began to slot into place to form answers, for the first time since he arrived at the lake, he felt truly powerless.   
  
Moriarty wanted him, that much was sickeningly obvious. But more to the point, Moriarty wanted to take him away from John. He would do anything to achieve that end. Up to and including murder.   
  
If Sherlock failed in his attempt to escape, he was a dead man.


	8. Chapter Eight

The night of John's scheduled return, Sherlock emerged from the lake in silence and went immediately to his shelter. Neither Lestrade nor Molly attempted to speak with him. They gave him a wide berth and left him to his silence. And if the soft breathing coming from within the primitive hut was a bit less steady than usual, if there were soft and broken vocalisations with each exhale, well, they pretended not to notice.   
  
He was grateful, though he never said as much.   
  
He knew the Key now. All of it. He knew his place in it, what John had to do, what they would do together. But it occurred to him, as he lay on his side on the earthen floor with his sleeve tucked under his cheek to catch the salty drops of water, just how futile it all was if it turned out John wasn't coming back at all.   
  
He curled up by himself, listening to the silent wail of a heart that had been breaking for two years, and wept John's name into the night.   
  
~~~   
  
Greg was not having a good week.   
  
Really, he was having an absolute shit week.   
  
And it wasn't stopping.   
  
*Fucking lunatic.* He grumbled. *"Oh, he's so sweet and charming and his sodding smiles light up the sodding room."* He mocked, in something far too falsetto to be an imitation of Sherlock's voice. *Fuck that. You never told me he was completely psychotic!*   
  
He huffed and fluffed up his feathers against the rain. It was pissing it down, but there was John bloody Watson out in the post-apocalyptic wasteland of the back garden. He was actually crawling under razor wire. Who did that sort of thing? Wasn't it just in films?   
  
Oh, and now he was going over the wall again. What was that, twelve times now? And there was his mate, Mike or Mark or something, getting drenched despite the rain poncho and umbrella, eyes intent on John and the stopwatch.   
  
Greg sighed and shuffled further into the shelter of the leaves and branches overhead.   
  
*Why can't he just take off those fucking tags?* He snarled to himself. He was doing that a lot since leaving the lake. He was starting to worry a bit. He wasn't used to being alone for so long. Jim usually only kept him out for a few days, but he'd been in Sussex for more than a week watching Sherlock's insane boyfriend work himself into the ground.   
  
And still no opportunity had presented itself. Without the necklace Jim had taken, Greg was just a bird. He was getting their attention, finally, but they all seemed to assume he'd set up house in the woods around here.   
  
He checked the bullet casing from Moran's basement arsenal again. He'd lost count now of how many times he'd done it, but that damned bit of metal was the key to their whole plan. Perhaps more than any of the data from that sick attic, it made their little break-in worthwhile.   
  
He prodded at the casing with a talon. Still intact, still with the watery lock of Molly's hair safely sealed away with wax from the candle they'd stolen from the kitchen.   
  
It was interesting, Greg reflected, what people did when they thought no one was watching. Take Sherlock's brother. Mycroft, the kid had said. He was a downright terrifying chap at first glance, manoeuvring his agents and contacts about like the goddamned chess master. At first, Greg had stood in awe of him.   
  
Right up until he saw the (young, they're all so fucking young) man collapse to his knees in front of John's pretty younger sister and sob into her skirt as she combed her fingers through his increasingly curly hair.   
  
One night, Greg had been tree hopping around the house and had come across Mycroft in his en suite, staring hard into the mirror with his hands gripping the sink so hard his knuckles were white. He was saying something through gritted teeth to his reflection.   
  
Intrigued, Greg had flown as close as he dared and strained his hearing. The night had been calm, and Greg could just make out Mycroft's voice through the glass.   
  
'Remember.' Mycroft had snarled. 'Remember. Come on, just remember.' He closed his eyes and bowed his head, then looked up with eyes blazing.   
  
'Remember, dammit!' He cried as he slammed his fist against the mirror. The composure, the unflappable calm was stripped away and he stood, raw and exposed in a way Greg figured no one had seen him before.   
  
Except maybe Harry. He seemed willing to crumble in front of her, anyway. She was tiny and sweet-faced, but Mycroft seemed to build his entire defence structure around her. And if those longing looks Greg had seen her cast at the merlot were any indication, the dependence was mutual.   
  
John never saw any of this. John, it seemed, didn't see anything beyond his single minded pursuit, so it was just typical that now, amidst a truly heroic downpour, Greg was jerked back to awareness by the sound of John dragging the garage door open.   
  
'Are you sure?' Mike (or Mark) called through the sheeting rain. 'I mean…it's not exactly a day for it!'   
  
John dragged the motorbike out of the garage, his head ducked and the collar of his jacket turned up. 'I don't know what the weather will be like when I find him!' He called back. 'If I have to use this thing, I need to know I can handle it in unfavourable conditions!'   
  
Greg groaned to himself. The bike was a thing of beauty, and it just about made Greg cry to see it, if falcons could cry. It was a beast, gleaming and new where John hadn't already managed to splatter it with mud or oil, bullet sleek and hungry. Even on Moriarty's missions, Greg rarely got this close to a bike, and never to a bike like John's. Mycroft had to have given him the money, because no way a soldier at the beginning of his career could afford a sodding BMW.   
  
Not that he seemed to care. The bike was gorgeous, enough to make Greg's non-existent fingers ache for the throttle, for the ghosts of his legs and hips to damn near scream for the perfect support of the seat, for his ears to remember the scream of tyres on road, his nose the smell of petrol and leather. He wanted that bike. No, fuck that. He wanted  _his_  bike.   
  
'What if you crash? John?' Mike called, but John slipped on his helmet and paid him no mind.   
  
The engine revved, John settled into the seat, his soaked fatigues clinging to his legs and weighing him down. He and the bike tore away down the road, and Greg just didn't have the heart to follow him.   
  
He sighed a heavy sigh and leaned his tiny body against the tree. John had to slip up soon. He couldn't take this much longer.   
  
~~~   
  
John was soaked. That fact had weaselled its way into his brain bit by bit until it was all he could think about, despite the kinetic frenzy of the bike below him. His experiment (heh) had been more or less successful. He'd done a fair bit of careening on sharp turns, but thus far he still had all his limbs and digits so he counted it as a win. Though he was starting to see the appeal of leathers, since something water-resistant and pavement-proof would come in remarkably handy right about now.   
  
He liked the bike. He really liked the bike. It was probably as close to flying as a human would ever get. But even this lost its appeal after a good hour and a half of constant deluge.   
  
Christ he was even starting to sound like him. Nearly two weeks, barely sleeping, eating the bare minimum to keep his body functioning, bringing the military with him, and he was starting to crack.   
  
He finally spotted the house in the distance, and his whole body sagged in relief. He rolled back on the throttle and the bike leapt forward, carrying him home.   
  
He returned the motorbike to the garage and stumbled into the house. The heat hit him like a fist and he had to brace himself against the wall for a bit before he could take off his boots. They squelched against the floor and dripped steadily.   
  
'John?'   
  
He looked up, blinking into the warm light of the kitchen. 'Mum.'   
  
'What happened to you?'   
  
John slipped out of his jacket and attempted to hang it on the hook. Wasn't it green before? 'Had a bit of a joyride. The bike.'   
  
'In this?' She demanded.   
  
John shrugged and watched with mild interest as a clump of mud sloughed off of the back of his jacket to splatter on the cupboard floor. 'Yeah…'   
  
'John, you'll catch your death. Get out of those wet clothes this minute!'   
  
John smirked, his eyelids drooping. 'Yes, mum. Should I tell Harry it's bed time?'   
  
'Jonathan Hamish Watson!'   
  
John flinched. 'Sorry.'   
  
Ann deflated. 'John…stop. Just stop. You're killing yourself.'   
  
'Bollocks.' He sighed. 'I'm fine.'   
  
'You're falling asleep on your feet!'   
  
'Jus' riding…'   
  
'John!'   
  
'I'm fine, mum!' He snapped. 'Stay out of it.'   
  
Ann glared at him as he moved to the door across the room and crossed her arms over her chest. 'You won't rest until we're mourning you as well, will you?'   
  
John froze, his hand on the door frame. He curled it into a fist and slammed it against the wood. 'Shut up!' He snarled. Then he rounded on her, eyes blazing, 'We are not fucking mourning him, you understand? He's not fucking dead! Don't you ever say that again!'   
  
He span round and stomped out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him and leaving his mother to stare, open mouthed, at the space where he'd been.   
  
~~~   
  
Falcons have good ears.   
  
Really, they do. It's a bird thing. But even with his human ears Greg would've had no trouble hearing the row in the kitchen. He wanted to wince. By all of Sherlock's accounts, John Watson was not the sort of man to go spare at his own mother, but Greg had been watching the man for more than a week now. He knew desperation when he saw it. He could practically see the cracks in the poor guy's spirit growing wider and crumbling at the edges.   
  
John didn't have much time. None of them did.   
  
*You did this, kid.* He whispered to a boy a world away who couldn't hear him. *You came into our lives and now everything is happening. It's like we were waiting for you.*   
  
He flew around the house, trying to glimpse John through the windows, before he realised that he knew just where John would be tonight.   
  
He flapped his protesting wings through the cool night air and lighted on a branch near the unlocked window of Sherlock's bedroom.   
  
~~~   
  
John knew what hate felt like. He'd felt it for Mycroft in those few months after his last phone call to England. He felt it for the monster who'd taken Sherlock from him. He felt it for the arrogant bastard who'd left the taunting bullet casing at the crash site.   
  
But lately his hate was turning inward, nearly choking him with its intensity. He hated the man he was becoming. Hated him down to the bone. He stood in the shower and let the water pound against his back and tried to remember the John Watson he used to be, the John Watson who had been worthy of Sherlock's heart.   
  
He couldn't manage it. He sank to his knees and willed the hot water to burn him away, to burn out all of the hard that had worked its way into his skin, leaving just him in its wake. He wanted to wash away all the anger, the desire to hurt, the need to draw blood, to watch it flow. For Sherlock's sake he was becoming a monster, and he couldn't say for certain if there'd be anything else left by the time all of this was over.   
  
If it was ever over.   
  
'Sherlock…' He sobbed, his voice all but lost to the spray. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.'   
  
Sherlock's bedroom still smelled of him. John tried not to sleep there too often, unwilling to let his scent crowd Sherlock's out of the space before he got him back. He held his dog tags loosely in his hand. They were caked in mud and grit and his own sweat, and he couldn't stand to feel them on his body any longer. Soldiers wore tags, and just for tonight he didn't want to be a soldier. He pulled back the duvet and crept into Sherlock's bed.   
  
Yes, he decided. It would have been just like this, if they'd dared that night. He'd slip under the covers gingerly, shy of moving too fast, of doing too much. Sherlock would be waiting for him, tucked away where he couldn't be seen. He might already be naked, John wouldn't be able to tell until he felt those long, wiry arms wrap around him, until he was pulled against that warm, solid chest. They'd kiss to start, eager to explore this new secret they'd just unlocked, to perfect it. They'd do it, too. They'd raise kissing to an art form. They'd redefine it.   
  
John softly flexed his fingers over the empty mattress beside him. It was cold. It was always cold. He was starting to have trouble imagining it any other way. He lay there, absently stroking the sheet and breathing in a memory, until he drifted off to sleep.   
  
~~~   
  
Greg watched with keen predator's eyes for John's breathing to even out, to deepen until there was no doubt that he was asleep, then he took a deep breath, flew down to the grass below, and used one foot to bring the bullet casing to his beak.   
  
He was nervous. God knew he'd practised enough, drilling under Sherlock's inexhaustible eye for nights on end until he could reliably prize the wax away with his beak without spilling the precious water inside, but one mistake here would cost them everything.   
  
He clicked his beak in agitation, then carefully, so carefully slipped the wicked hook of it under the wax and twisted his neck just…so…   
  
The wax crumbled away, exposing Molly's hair droplets to the open air. Greg took another deep breath, gently lowered his foot, and concentrated on the body he wanted.   
  
He opened his eyes, licked his lips and smiled. He spared a second, just a second, to run his impossible fingers over his impossible face, and he thanked whatever passed for God these days for the existence of Sherlock Holmes.   
  
He climbed the ivy trellis up to the window, one eye constantly on the casing and its precious cargo. Thanks to the efforts of the household cleaning staff, the window slid up effortlessly and nearly without a sound. Even so, Greg scarcely dared breathe as he brought one boot, then the other to rest on Sherlock's carpet.   
  
_So this is it, eh kid?_  He thought, looking around the bedroom.  _Not bad. Bit mad scientist for my taste. Is that…stuff supposed to move like that?_   
  
He shook his head and made himself focus on the task at hand. He just needed the tags. In the morning he could fly around with them dangling from his talons. That'd get John's attention, no question.   
  
He moved as quietly as he could, hunched over with his hand extended toward the muddied dog tags on the bedside table. He was close enough now that he only needed lower his hand just…so…   
  
Something cold, hard, and very, very sharp appeared against the skin of his neck, and an arm snaked around his chest tight enough to make breathing a bit of an effort. His hands went up instantly, open and empty in surrender. He licked his lips and tried not to swallow.   
  
'Who are you and what do you want with my tags?' The voice behind him did not even remotely sound like 'the lyrical lilt of a piccolo offset by the gentle undertones of a viola'. It sounded like something small, quick and angry. With teeth. Poisonous teeth.   
  
'Sh-Sherlock!' He managed, desperately trying to keep himself from moving a muscle. 'Sherlock told me to say-- to thank you. For not saying it.'   
  
He felt the body behind him grow more tense. 'You're lying.' It was almost, very nearly, a question.   
  
'N-no.' Greg fought back the urge to shake his head. 'No, he said--he wanted to know…if you liked the photos.'   
  
The knife wavered, pulled just slightly away from his throat. Greg pressed on. 'He says he hopes you like the birthday one, because there's no way Harry is getting him into one of those ridiculous hats again.'   
  
There was a sound, either a laugh or a sob, or maybe some cross between the two, and the knife lowered to his collarbone. 'No…no you can't…he can't…'   
  
The hand holding the knife went limp, and the weapon clattered to the floor where Greg kicked it away. John released his hold and collapsed back against the wardrobe. Greg turned to face him, mindful of the water around his neck, and saw a shattered man sinking to the floor, his face grey and his eyes sunken.   
  
'Where is he?' The steel was back in John's voice, colder now. Harder. 'Where. Is. Sherlock?' He looked up at Greg, and Greg had seen wolverines with saner eyes than those.   
  
Greg knelt in front of him, keeping his body open and unthreatening. 'My name is PC Greg Lestrade. I'm a friend of Sherlock's. Sort of a cell mate.'   
  
John's eyes flashed and he shifted his weight into something with intent, and Greg could have slapped himself for that wording.   
  
'No, no it's…he's not…' He sighed and licked his lips. 'Look, this is incredibly complicated and you're guaranteed not to believe most of it, but I've got until this water evaporates to tell you everything you've got to know to save him, so I need you to sit there, shut up, and let me talk.'   
  
John kept his eyes locked on Greg's and nodded.   
  
Greg let out a low breath. 'Okay, mate, here's how this works:'


	9. Chapter Nine

'How are you?' Molly asked, trying to sound as though she hadn't been working up the courage to ask for the past hour or two.   
  
'Cold.' Sherlock replied, his voice pitched to match.   
  
'He'll be back.' She assured him. 'It's just…'   
  
'Just what?' Sherlock snapped. 'Just taking longer than expected? Do you honestly think I don't realise that? Do you really believe that I'm not tracking every single second that's gone by since he left? I am all too aware of how long it's taking, Molly!'   
  
She chewed on the inside of her cheek, and he sighed. 'No, I'm--don't, don't pay attention to any of that. I seem to have…lost my head a bit. I just…I just want him so badly!'   
  
Molly looked down at her hands for a moment, then she looked up with a small smile. 'Come here.'   
  
'What? Into the water?'   
  
'Obviously. Come on.'   
  
Warily, Sherlock slipped into the water. It was cool, but not cold enough to be uncomfortable. Molly always saw to that. He sat on his heels in the shallows, feeling the tiny waves lap at his thighs. 'What now?'   
  
Molly swept over to him and settled beside and a bit behind him. 'Tilt your head back.'   
  
'Why?'   
  
Molly giggled. 'Because you're a gay boy and I'm a straight girl, and tradition dictates that we must muck about with each other's hair. It's the law.'   
  
Sherlock turned and glared at her. 'You can't be serious.'   
  
Molly adopted a sober expression. 'Oh, I assure you this is quite serious, Mr Holmes. We have an obligation.'   
  
'You're insane.' He accused.   
  
Molly nodded. 'This is news to you?'   
  
'I--you--' he broke off, at a loss for words. And wasn’t that novel?   
  
Then, he couldn't help it. He laughed, and tilted back his head.   
  
Molly's fingers snaked through his curls and immediately found resistance. 'Ugh. You are in desperate need of a comb.'   
  
'Bit thin on the ground here.'   
  
Molly just shook her head. 'Lay back, put your head in the water.'   
  
Sherlock did as he was told and he instantly felt Molly's influence over the water as it worked the knots from his hair. It felt…rather wonderful, actually. Like a scalp massage only better. He hadn't realised before now just how uncomfortable the tangled mess atop his head had been. It didn't renew with each dusk like his clothing did, but continued to grow and knot as normal.   
  
'We should get you all sorted, make you gorgeous for when John comes.' Molly said, running so-soft fingers through his hair alongside her tiny currents.   
  
'Do you think?' He asked quietly, his eyes closed against the lake water.   
  
'Yeah. We'll make him forget his own name, once he sees you.'   
  
Sherlock smiled. 'It's really happening, isn't it?'   
  
Molly hummed. 'I bet you're excited.'   
  
'I don't…know what to do with myself, actually. I feel like…like I can't wait for sunrise.'   
  
Molly's hand stilled. 'What?'   
  
'I need to fly. It's the only thing that comes close to matching it.' He felt giddy, in a way he hadn't since he'd first read the words 'I love you' in John's rushed handwriting. And he could say these things, here and in this moment, with no one but Molly and the night to hear him be stupid and fluttery in love.   
  
Molly edged him up out of the water and began to methodically card her hands through his now un-knotted hair, pulling it into small sections with her fingers.   
  
'Tell me about him.'   
  
Sherlock smiled. 'I talk of little else.'   
  
'Yes.' Molly said. 'But it's tradition.'   
  
'No, tell me about…was there anyone?'   
  
'You mean before the Old Man kidnapped me?' She asked, her voice entirely too casual. 'No. There wasn't. I was the brainy girl who liked dissection too much and spent the lunch hour in the library. No one was interested, and even if they were I probably wouldn't have noticed.'   
  
'Oh.' When Sherlock had been thirteen he'd had the majority of the female population eating out of his hand, and a small, secret portion of the male population as well. It had been a game for him, finding which buttons to push to make them abandon all reason. It had got him into more than a few schoolyard scrapes and even landed him in hospital once. He'd kept to himself after that.   
  
'I did kiss Greg once.' Molly said suddenly.   
  
Sherlock jerked and whipped round to stare at her, yanking his hair from her hands in the process. 'You what?' He demanded, rubbing his sore scalp.   
  
Molly worried at her lower lip. 'Not…seriously or anything. I didn't know him very well at the time. He'd just come back from a mission and he was very upset. He saw his fiancée with another man, you see, and I was trying to help him with his shoulders and,' she blushed. 'He was just so close and I'd never done it and he just looked so lonely. So I kissed him.'   
  
'What happened?' He asked.   
  
She shrugged. 'He kissed me back for a moment. It was…all right, I guess. Nice enough, anyway. But then he sort of pushed me back and he got this look on his face, like he was going to be sick or something. Then he ran away. He wouldn't talk to me for weeks after that.'   
  
Sherlock laughed. He couldn't help himself. 'Yes, I can see that. He had to have been…what? Twenty-nine?'   
  
'Yeah.'   
  
Sherlock continued massaging his head. 'He probably felt like dirty old man…' he tapered off, his fingers coming into contact with something thick, bumpy, and horribly familiar. 'Molly…' He said through gritted teeth.   
  
'Yes?' She asked, eyes wide and doe-like.   
  
'Did you  _braid_  my hair?'   
  
Molly giggled. 'Of course! Well, started to.'   
  
' _Why_ did you braid my hair?!'   
  
Molly shrugged. 'I never really learned to do much else. And it's been a really long time since I got the chance. Please, Sherlock?  _Please_ ?'   
  
'I…you…' He sputtered.   
  
'Besides, it'll keep it from getting all knotted up again, and it'll be extra curly by the time John gets here.'   
  
Sherlock drew back, horrified. 'It will not! It'll make my head look like a puffball! Or like I've electrocuted myself.'   
  
'You speak from experience?' She asked, one eyebrow arched.   
  
He blushed and looked down, mumbling something under his breath.   
  
'What was that?'   
  
He looked up. 'Harry used to do it, all right? We were born within days of each other, we spent every summer together, I was having a long distance relationship with her brother. Believe me, I'm no stranger to waking up with a sore scalp and beads bouncing in front of my eyes.'   
  
Molly pouted a little at that, and Sherlock felt something melt in his chest despite his best efforts.   
  
Then she decided to play dirty. 'Don't you want to see what happens to it after you change back?'   
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to answer her, then realised he had no answer and shut it again. He groaned and slumped forward. 'Fine. Finish it. But if I come out of this looking like a dandelion fluff I'm shaving off your eyebrows.'   
  
'Fair enough.' She said, and tugged him back into position so she could get back to work making him look like an idiot.   
  
~~~   
  
'John, John you've got to look at me.'   
  
John forced his eyes to meet PC Lestrade's. The man looked uneasy, almost frightened.   
  
'I don't believe you.' John said, and the words ripped at him.   
  
'I know you don't, mate. But you're about to.' He glanced down at the bullet casing around his neck, and John tried not to think about the glimpse of coppery metal he'd seen around the Falcon's.   
  
'This is a dream.' John insisted, because he had to, because life didn't work like this. You didn't work your arse off, didn't lose sleep and weight and sanity, didn't throw yourself into something inhuman and hungry all to have the object of your devotion dropped into your lap by an impossible bird-man.   
  
'It's real. I'm real. I can lead you to him.'   
  
John licked his lips. 'I…'   
  
'It's almost time.' PC Lestrade interrupted. 'Please, give me the tags.'   
  
John nodded, but he couldn't look the man in the eye anymore. 'Take them.'   
  
Lestrade moved to the bedside table and grabbed the discs in his hand. Returning to John, he dropped them on the floor and crouched.   
  
'Don't look away, John.' He said. 'You need to see this. To understand.'   
  
'You said he can't leave. Tell me why he can't just leave.' John insisted.   
  
Lestrade shook his head. 'I can't do that. Trust me when I tell you it's gonna be hard enough for you without adding that to it.'   
  
'How the fuck is a kiss supposed to help him?'   
  
Lestrade winced, as though something was hurting him. 'It's more than a kiss, John. It's a promise. I told you. You have to be willing to do anything. You have to be willing to promise everything.' He gasped and clutched at his chest. 'Shit! Almost time.'   
  
John's eyes locked on him of their own accord, and he couldn't breathe. 'What's happening to you…has it happened to him?'   
  
The man shook his head. 'No…he's not like me.' He broke off with a straggled scream, and John's eye darted to the door for a fraction of a second before focussing back on the man. 'He's different.' Lestrade clutched at his ribs, his face contorting. 'Ah! Never hurts like this…back there. Shit!'   
  
'What's happening to you?' John demanded. 'What can I do?'   
  
Lestrade looked up, and his eyes were sad and broken. 'Nothing. You're not for me.' He winced and doubled over, landing hard on his knees. 'But you can save him. Don't--don't look away!'   
  
John didn't look away, and he saw PC Lestrade's body shiver, then waver, then he seemed to curl into himself, his body tightening and shrinking.   
  
There was a rustle of feathers, and where there had been a man there was a bird, dusty brown with a cruel beak and cold eyes.   
  
The bird looked down at the floor and carefully wrapped the talons of its right foot around the chain of John's tags. It bobbed its head up and down in the approximation of a nod, then the eyes closed and the falcon collapsed, its wings beating half-heartedly as it tumbled forward onto its stomach and slept.   
  
John stared at it, waiting for his mind to shut down, to start gibbering in panic and disbelief. But it didn't happen. PC Greg Lestrade had turned into a bird and passed out on his boyfriend's bedroom floor. It had happened. He'd seen it. And to deny it was to deny the chance he'd see Sherlock again, so he didn't. It was a thing that happened.   
  
Slowly, carefully, and with the very real knowledge that he might be in shock, John bundled Lestrade's exhausted, feathery body into his arms and carried it to the bed. He arranged the duvet into something like a nest and arranged the bird into a seemingly bird-ish position, then he moved to a chair by the bed, sat down, buried his face in his hands and waited for morning.   
  
~~~   
  
'Very nice.' Molly said once the wave had cleared. 'Perfectly intact.'   
  
'Yeah?' Sherlock asked. He shook his head back and forth, making the thin braids fly around his head in a chaotic halo. He was giddy, drunk on moonlight and anticipation. He was young, he was in love, and he was so, so close to freedom.   
  
'I love it.' Molly grinned.   
  
'Maybe I should keep it like this.' He joked. 'John'll love it!'   
  
Molly laughed and pushed him so he mock-staggered out of the water. He rotated his shoulders, one after another. He'd spent the majority of his waking hours in the air, and his muscles were tight and achy from it.   
  
'He's coming Molly.' He said, his face almost hurt from smiling. 'He's finally coming!'   
  
Molly grinned at him. Then, as he watched, her face froze, and the smile slowly began to crumble. She opened her mouth to say something, but she was too late. Before she could speak and before Sherlock could turn his head, thick, rough fingers wound their way into his braids and yanked him back.   
  
'Well, this is precious, innit? You girls been having fun?' Moran's voice oozed into his ear even as the towering gunman forced Sherlock's head painfully back.   
  
'Don't--' Molly said, but her voice cut off and Jim sauntered into view.   
  
'Ooh, very unobservant Sherlock. I expected better from you.'   
  
Sherlock flailed and tried to pull free, but Moran just grabbed his wrists in one massive hand and held them firmly behind Sherlock's back.   
  
'Tell him to let me go.' Sherlock snarled. 'I've got nothing you want.'   
  
Jim laughed. 'Please. You've got plenty I want. I want your fear, your hate, your respect. I definitely want your devotion. In fact, I think I'll have you on your knees. Seb?'   
  
The hand at his wrists twisted and the hand in his hair tugged and he was being forced down to his knees, Moriarty towering over him as Moran smirked into the back of his neck.   
  
'Is it worth it?' Sherlock spat. 'Knowing you'll always have to force me?'   
  
Moriarty giggled. 'Not for long, Sherlock. I'll break you. Or I'll burn you. I haven't decided yet.' He ran a finger along Sherlock's cheek. 'That's really up to you, my dear.'   
  
'John won't betray me.' Sherlock said. 'He's a good man. He'll do whatever it takes.'   
  
'Oh, so you think you know how this all works, do you?'   
  
'I know what you wrote on the walls.' He sneered. 'I know how much you need me.'   
  
Moriarty kneeled down, and Seb gave Sherlock's hair enough slack that they could maintain eye contact. 'You've figured it out. Good boy. Knew you'd get there eventually.'   
  
'It's pathetic. You think John will shy away from marrying me?' He pulled his face into the haughtiest expression he knew, the one he'd learned from Mycroft. 'He loves me. We're practically engaged already.'   
  
'You've never fucked him.' Jim pointed out. 'Anyway, you're wrong. He doesn't need to marry you. Marriage is so…impermanent. People who don't love each other get married all the time. Ask your parents.'   
  
Sherlock thrashed in Moran's hold, but he said nothing.   
  
'No, he's got to mean it, Sherlock. Can you guarantee that he does? That he'll love you, permanently, never stray, never regret that kiss that started it all?' He smirked down at Sherlock. 'Do you even believe in love like that?'   
  
'I believe in John.' Sherlock answered. 'I believe he won't hesitate to put a bullet through your brain. Or your minion's.' He thrashed again, and Moran gripped him tighter until the bones in his wrist creaked in protest.   
  
Moriarty laughed. 'And you think that'll save you? Can you be sure it won't just lock you in the swan's body for the rest of your life? Remember, Sherlock, I've changed you. This form is the temporary one.'   
  
'You're lying.'   
  
Moriarty shook his head. 'Hardly. I'm a much better liar than that.'   
  
Moriarty moved away, and Sherlock could see past him to the lake, where Molly was…still standing. And she wasn't shrinking away. She wasn't moving at all. She stood statue-still, and her face was set into a mask of quiet rage. The water around her feet was beginning to froth and churn, just enough to be noticeable.   
  
'How will you get the whole world to see your boyfriend's little declaration, anyway?' Moriarty asked, still in his languid pace.   
  
'We'll find a way.' Sherlock said automatically, too distracted by Molly's behaviour to pay much attention to the game.   
  
Jim stopped in his tracks and looked at Sherlock, who tore his gaze from the lake to glare up at him. 'We will end you.'   
  
Jim sighed and crouched down in front of Sherlock, his face open and conciliatory. 'It's not too late, Sherlock. Tell me where fly boy's gone, what you're planning, and I can still save you.'   
  
'Save me?' Sherlock scoffed. 'From yourself?'   
  
Jim nodded, sombre. 'Surrender. Give up the game, and I'll spare your life. Greg's too.'   
  
Sherlock flinched, but he didn't look away. 'No.'   
  
Jim sighed. 'Sherlock…please. I'm asking you nicely, now. Just forget about John, swear yourself to me and I'll buy you out of the spell. I'll take your body back from the lake and I'll give it to you, permanently. You'll never have to be a swan again. All you have to do, is kiss me.'   
  
Sherlock's whole body tightened at that, and he felt a disturbing mixture of heat and nausea at the idea. 'Or?'   
  
'Or…when John shows his face at this lake, you become an enemy. I don't tolerate enemies, Sherlock. I'll destroy you. All of you. Just one kiss, Sherlock, and you can save all their lives. Refuse me, and…' He let his voice trail off, and Sherlock gaped at him, scarcely able to breathe.   
  
It would be so easy, he knew. Just a quick peck, it wouldn't have to mean anything. And he could…learn. He could grow stronger, better than Jim. He could kill him, just like Jim had killed his own teacher. And once he knew, once he was powerful enough, he could free them all. He could take that power, that knowledge. He could play the world with it, manipulate reality like the strings on his violin. Just a kiss. Just one kiss.   
  
_Sherlock…_   
  
John's voice inside his head, a flash of white gold, the aching memory of a kiss long overdue.   
  
_I love you_ .   
  
He closed his eyes, he let himself go slack in Moran's grip. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and cracking around the edges.   
  
'I want John's necklace back.'   
  
He watched Jim's face contort into an ugly rictus. 'Seb, have some fun.' He said, and he stood and walked away.   
  
'NO!' The shout came from the water, and Molly surged forward, her face furious and calm. 'You don't touch him!'   
  
Jim whipped round and raised his hands. Molly stopped short, as though being held back by unyielding hands. She struggled, some of her hair flying from its ties and getting in her face.   
  
'Sebastian, I did give you an order.' Jim snarled.   
  
Sherlock felt the hand on his head release, and several braids tumbled in front of his eyes. He was thrown roughly to the ground, landing hard on his chest.   
  
'I said.' Molly gritted out. 'You. Don't. Touch him.'   
  
'Are you talking to me?' Jim asked.   
  
Molly turned her head to focus on Jim. 'I am now.' She said.   
  
Jim flinched. It was a tiny movement, over in a blink, but Sherlock saw it. He wondered if Molly did, too.   
  
'Seb?' Jim called.   
  
Sherlock felt a boot collide with his kidney and he cried out, curling in on himself.   
  
Molly glared down at Jim, and the water around her thrashed, hurling itself at an invisible barrier just in front of her. 'I'm talking to you, Jim.' She said. 'This is my voice. This is what I sound like after six years. This is what I sound like as a grown woman. This, Jim, is what I sound like when I am pissed off!'   
  
Moriarty stared up at her, and Sherlock did too, but Molly wasn't done. She raised her arm, and a torrent of water slammed itself into the wall that wasn't there. Jim's knee buckled slightly, and he pushed out with his upraised hands.   
  
'I'm sick of you hurting them. I'm sick of having broken bodies thrown into me, of having to put them back together so you can break them again. I'm sick of listening to your smug, irritating voice. I'm sick of watching them bleed into me.' She punctuated each sentence with another column of raging water, but her voice never rose.   
  
'And I am so sick of you holding me back!' She hissed, using both hands to hurl an entire river at him.   
  
Jim stumbled back as though pushed, and his eyes widened in fear. 'What are you--'   
  
'Do you like it, Jimmy? Don't you like it when I dance?'   
  
'Moran!' Jim called, and Seb moved instantly to his boss's side.   
  
'You're. Not. Hurting. Him. Anymore!' Molly shouted, slamming her power into Jim's shield.   
  
Moran moved behind Jim and held him upright by the shoulders, but even that didn't stop them being forced backward by the strength of Molly's onslaught.   
  
'I'm stronger than you think, Jim.' Molly said softly. 'And I won't let you hold me back again.'   
  
She raised her arms high, and the entire lake threw itself against Jim's barrier. Something in the air shattered without a sound, and Sherlock could feel it moving through him, sharp and jagged, like broken glass. He curled up in a ball and shielded himself with his hands, but the feeling of sharp and broken passed right through his skin and muscle and bone.   
  
When he looked up, Jim and Moran were both soaked and flat on their backs. He watched Jim make his way unsteadily to his feet, and his face was blank though his eyes burned.   
  
'I can see…I've been too lenient with you.' He said, and his voice wavered and jumped. 'The Old Man was right. Mercy could end me. I won't be making that mistake again.' He watched Moran get to his feet, then turned back to Molly. 'It's time I put my own spin on that spell of yours, Molly. Tighten those chains a bit.'   
  
'Try.' Molly sneered.   
  
'I intend to.' He glanced over at Sherlock, disinterested. 'So you've chosen, then? Very well. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. I must admit you've been something of a disappointment, but then, I guess killing you could be fun as well. Nice knowing you.'   
  
He left, taking the hill path up to the house, and Seb followed him.   
  
Molly watched them go, then sighed and collapsed to her knees. 'Sherlock…come here. Let me see the damage.'   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'No I'm, I’m fine. He didn't hurt me much.'   
  
'I saw the kick. Just get over here.'   
  
Sherlock went to the water and sat in front of her. Her gentle hands unerringly sought out the just forming bruise over his kidney and rested there. The pain eased instantly, but it didn't go away.   
  
'Molly?'   
  
Molly scrunched up her forehead and frowned, straining. Nothing changed.   
  
'Molly, are you all right?'   
  
She let out a breathy whimper and pushed her hand more firmly against his body. Still nothing.   
  
'Molly?'   
  
She looked up at him. 'I--I can't. I'm sorry. It's not working.'   
  
A bolt of panic shot through him, but he forced it back. 'Try to move the water.' He said.   
  
Molly nodded and held a hand over the surface of the lake. A single drop rose up and moved toward her hand, then splashed back down. Her hand faded until Sherlock could see clearly through it.   
  
'Sherlock!' She gasped.   
  
'Don't! Don't do anything. Don't heal me, don't move the water, do absolutely nothing.'   
  
She sniffled, and without thinking he pulled her into his arms. He could feel her body shaking against him, feel the wet tears on his skin as she buried her face in his neck. 'I can't…Sherlock it hurts.'   
  
He shushed her and held her tighter. 'Relax. You must've used too much of…whatever it is you use. You need to rest. Just rest.'   
  
_Please_ . He begged.  _Please only need to rest. Please be strong enough when day breaks._   
  
She shuddered against him. 'Sherlock…I can't. It hurts too much. I'm sorry.'   
  
'Molly! Molly stay with me! Please. You'll be okay, just don't…just stay with me, please!'   
  
She shook harder, almost spasming in his arms.   
  
'Oh God don't go! Please, Molly!'   
  
One final shudder, and the body he was holding fell apart, nothing now but clear, clean water that soaked into his clothes and his skin.   
  
'Molly!' He cried. 'Say something! Molly, please!'   
  
He felt a prickle of something heavy and thick, a weariness down to his bones, at the back of his mind. It had no voice. It had almost no form. It was even more basic than the emotions he'd sent her so long ago, before his swan self had learned to speak.   
  
The tired sensation faded, and the silence closed over him. He felt the solitary expanse of his own mind, seemingly stretching out forever, and he felt alone for the first time in three months.   
  
'Molly…' He whispered. There was no reply.   
  
He waited out the night like that, occasionally calling her name to the silent waters and getting nothing in return. He huddled into his shelter, his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his knees, and waited with mounting terror for the dawn.   
  
It came, as it always did, heedless of Sherlock's desperation to stop it. He watched the stars fade out, watched the black turn blue, and he shivered.   
  
'Molly!' He sobbed, watching the sky pale in the east. He slipped into the water, hoping he wasn't imagining her presence soothing against his skin. 'Molly, please! It's time!'   
  
Nothing.   
  
He bit his lip, hard, and moved deeper into the Lake. He sat back on his heels, the water up to his shoulders, and leaned forward into the brace position he'd used for his second morning.   
  
'Molly.' He said, keeping his voice as even as he could. 'You know…what's about to happen. I don't know if you can see me, but if you can, turn away. Don't watch this. And…' he licked his lips. 'Whatever happens, it was worth it. I'm…proud of you, Molly. What you did was astonishing. Please…don't blame yourself for this.'   
  
The words were hard to form, harder to say. They were the sort of thing John would say, or Greg, but they weren't available at the moment, so it fell to Sherlock to say them.   
  
He closed his eyes. He didn't need to see the sun rise to know it was happening. He could feel it the moment the first rays hit the lake. He sucked in a breath and clenched his jaw, digging his fingers into the silt at the bottom of the shallows.   
  
'It's not your fault.' He whispered to the water.   
  
Then the sun hit his back, and he started to scream.


	10. Chapter Ten

It had been more than two years since Greg had slept in a bed. A proper bed, with sheets and pillows and everything. He awoke reluctantly, luxuriating in the soft duvet against his feathers. He nuzzled into the fabric and spread his wings wide, letting them rest bonelessly over the dips and rises of John's makeshift nest.   
  
'Is it time?'   
  
He opened his eyes and saw John perched on the edge of his seat, staring at him.   
  
*Yeah, yeah.* He grumbled. *Give us a minute, would you?*   
  
John licked his lips. 'Please…I can't. Just…take me to him. Please.'   
  
Greg sighed. *Look…I know this is…difficult for you. Just let me feel this for a minute and we'll go.'   
  
John sighed and slumped into the chair. 'Look at me. I'm talking to a sodding bird.'  He let out a helpless giggle. 'I don't even know if you can understand me like this.'   
  
*Wrong way round, mate.* Greg muttered. *Oh, this should be fun.*   
  
'Um…I know you can't…listen, if you can understand me, snap your beak once.'   
  
Greg snapped at the air as though biting through a particularly wriggly field mouse.   
  
'Right, okay. Um…once for yes, twice for no. The standard method, I guess. Is your name Greg Lestrade?'   
  
Greg snapped at the air.   
  
'Right, yes. Are we in London right now?'   
  
Greg made a quite heroic attempt at rolling his eyes and bit down on nothing, twice.   
  
'Got it. Okay.' John levelled his gaze at Greg, and something in his eyes made Greg want to hide under the covers. They weren't dead...but there was nothing like life in them. They were empty eyes.   
  
'Are they hurting him?'   
  
Greg hesitated. He snapped the air once.   
  
John didn't flinch, but something flashed behind those empty eyes, something cold.   
  
'Do they know I'm coming?'   
  
And Greg didn't even have to think about that one. He gave a single snap.   
  
John's whole body shifted, loose in a very dangerous way. His limbs settled into something comfortable and poised. Greg had seen the firearms unit head out for a raid once, and John reminded him of them. He had that same grim certainty on his face, the kind you got when you knew you were probably about to kill someone, or to die, regardless of how hard you tried to prevent it.   
  
Greg had never known that feeling. Not really. Sure there's always the chance, even if you're just another uniform, and Greg had been certain when Moran's gun had come down on the back of his head that his number was up, but he'd never gone to work with the very real knowledge that blood was probably going to be spilt, and there was an equal chance of it being his.   
  
*You're too young for those eyes, John.* He said. *Fuck,  _I'm_  to young for them.* He flapped his wings to help him get to his feet and bobbed his head. *Come on. It's time you two saved each other already.*   
  
John sighed and rubbed his fingers over his temples. 'No more putting it off, I suppose.' He said.   
  
He stood, and carefully bundled Greg into his arms. The discs dangled on their dirty chain from the falcon's clutching foot, and they bobbed and swayed as John moved silently down the hall to his own bedroom.   
  
From his seat on John's desk, Greg watched the young soldier move with efficient, single-minded purpose. He said nothing, didn't so much as glance in Greg's direction, as he pulled a fresh set of fatigues from a drawer.   
  
John dressed with brisk, practised movements, only bothering to speak whilst down on one knee to lace his boots.   
  
'The bike is yours.' He said. 'I won't need it after this, if all goes to plan. Ride it or sell it, I don't much care, but it's yours.'   
  
Greg's heart kicked in his chest, and he gaped at John. Of course, falcons can't really gape terribly well, but the sentiment was there.   
  
'Leathers. You're…you were, covered in them. They've seen better days, so they're not for show. You ride. Better than me, I'll wager. You're a police officer, so you've got a protective streak, and you flew out here, waited around for the perfect opportunity, and attempted a night time ambush of an active soldier all for Sherlock's sake. You said yourself I don't have whatever it is that frees you, so it's not even a little selfish.' He stood and stared Greg in his raptor's eyes. 'You've been watching over him, taking care of him. All this time. He wasn't alone.' He licked his lips, the first sign of vulnerability since he'd stood up from the chair. 'The sodding bike is yours, Lestrade.'   
  
*How--you--but I--* Greg sputtered, and he swivelled his head in agitation.   
  
'Don't look at me like that. I grew up with Sherlock  _and_  Mycroft. Do you really think Sherlock would have fallen for me if I were an idiot? I'm not a Holmes but I'm not stupid.' And he smiled, and Greg understood Sherlock's pining just a little more, because a smile like that could put wind under your wings.   
  
John held out an arm, and Greg half jumped, half glided onto it, landing with far more frantic flapping than he felt was necessary.   
  
~~~   
  
'John, please, I only want to understand.' Mycroft pleaded.   
  
'Yeah, and that kills you, don't it?' John sniped. He didn't want to be cross with the man, but he was well out of patience and Mycroft was standing in the way. 'Look, I barely understand any of it myself, but I know enough to see that it's the best lead so far. I'm taking it.'   
  
Mycroft blanched and grabbed hold of the handlebars. John revved the engine at him in annoyance, and was rewarded with the tiniest of flinches. 'John. Think. You're prepared to venture into a completely unknown location without backup and without a plan on the trail of a  _bird_ .'   
  
'Yep.' John confirmed. 'Now let go.'   
  
'A  _bird_ , John.'   
  
'A falcon, in fact.' John pointed out, baring his teeth in what could charitably be called a smile.   
  
'It's. A. Bird.'   
  
'Yes.' John said. 'It's a bird. And it had this around its neck.' He tossed something small and shiny to Mycroft.   
  
The elder Holmes caught the casing and held it up. His face and his body went still an instant later. He'd found the initials engraved on the side: S. M.   
  
'John…'   
  
'I'm going, Mye. When mum and Harry wake up, tell them I've gone to a meeting with Harlan. Don't get their hopes up.'   
  
Mycroft's hands reappeared on the handle bars, and John groaned.   
  
'What about my mother, John?' Mycroft demanded, and John's head sank, along with his heart.   
  
He licked his lips. 'I promised her I'd try, Mycroft.' He whispered. 'Tell her I'm trying.'   
  
Mycroft deflated and stepped aside, and John took the opportunity to guide the bike free of the garage. He scanned the trees for PC Lestrade and found him almost directly ahead, John's tags dangling from his talons. Their eyes locked, John nodded, and Lestrade took off from the tree.   
  
John followed him.   
  
~~~   
  
Flying for John wasn't easy. Greg had to keep low to the ground, far lower than he'd prefer and well below the updrafts that made flying so much easier. But John had that monster of a bike, and he kept up well enough. Greg led him north, toward London, but planned to avoid the city itself   
  
It took much longer than if he'd flown by himself, of course. Alone, Greg didn't need to follow the roads, or avoid dense tree cover, and a journey that would have taken him a few hours by wing took up most of the day, and a great deal of that was the heavy, labour-intensive flapping falcons were shit at. He found he had to stop frequently to rest his aching joints and burning muscles, and he knew his human body was going to pay for it when he changed back.   
  
'You're not taking me to London.' John said during one of these breaks. He had a map spread out over the windscreen on his bike. 'Mycroft would have found him if he were in London. Or at least we'd have  _something_ . Past London?'   
  
Greg looked up from the branch where he was panting, tiny chest heaving, and snapped once.   
  
'Right. Somewhere above London.' His finger rested on Cambridge, and he gave a sad smile. 'Maybe he stayed over after all.' He muttered.   
  
Two snaps, and a piercing falcon glare.   
  
'Right, sorry.' John took a deep breath and began to fold the map. 'Can you fly yet?'   
  
Two more snaps, and Greg huddled into himself, hitching his wings up around his ears. *Sod that, mate. I'm not sure I can ever fly again.*   
  
John sighed. 'Okay, fine. Can you make it to me, at least?'   
  
Greg eyed the distance between his tree branch and John's outstretched arm and bit the air once.   
  
'Okay, come on then. Sit behind the windscreen and I can take us through London. Once we're clear, you can take off again and lead me the rest of the way.'   
  
*Are you mental? I know it's a good bike but you seriously think it can beat London traffic?*   
  
John slapped his arm. 'Come on. It'll be…interesting to go home again.'   
  
Greg sighed and hopped into the air. He spread his wings and flapped a couple of times and it brought him to John's arm. A moment later he was securely bundled behind the windscreen, supported and partially hidden by John's jacket.   
  
It had been a long time since he'd felt the comfortable drone of an engine beneath him, even longer since he'd been enough of a passenger to enjoy it without focussing on the road in front of him, and he'd drifted into something of a doze by the time John came to a stop in front of a weathered but clean looking building on Montague Street.   
  
*What are we doing here, soldier boy? This is really not the time to be checking up on your mates.* Greg protested. *We've got places to be, annoying genius boys to save!*   
  
John, naturally, couldn't hear him. He got off the bike and removed his helmet, then he just sort of…stood there, for a while.   
  
*John?*   
  
John left Greg sitting on the bike and walked up to the door. Silently, he rested a hand on the worn wooden surface and bowed his head.   
  
'I can't marry him.' John said, quiet enough that if Greg were human, he wouldn't have heard him. 'Not officially. But I'd hoped…maybe someday. He'd call me a predictable idiot for it but…I want all that. I want the rings and the pointless ceremony and the food and I want to see my mum crying and laughing at the same time. I want Harry standing next to me and telling me to grow a pair to stop me shaking. I want…' He took a long, shaky breath. 'This is our flat. He doesn't know about it. It's his dad's sort of…rest of your life present I guess. It's not much, I mean there's a bedroom and a bath and then a sort of…everything else bit, but what else do you expect starting out in London? He'll hate it, I'm sure. But it's ours. For however long it lasts, it's ours.' He rested his forehead against the door and let out a long stream of air.   
  
He laughed then, but it was a bit too wet to be believable. 'I've only kissed him once. I spent my whole life hating him, and I couldn't be rid of him. Now when I love him so hard it's killing me, I can't seem to catch him. It's sick, innit? Bloody typical.'   
  
*John…*   
  
'What if it was all a dream, Lestrade? What if all that time apart we just built each other into these fantasies we'll never live up to? What if all this love we're haemorrhaging is just a very pretty lie? I can't--if he sees me and realises what a mistake he's made…I don't think I can survive that.'   
  
*Christ, mate. If you knew…he's gone on you. Round the bend, off his nut crazy about you. Why the fuck do you think I'm doing this? For a laugh? Stop moping like you're in a soap opera and get your arse back on this bike!* He let out a brief shriek for emphasis, and so John would actually notice he was there.   
  
John turned and smiled, or something like it. 'Yeah, I guess you're right. It's time we ended this.'   
  
Greg really,  _really_  wanted to properly roll his eyes. Christ, give a man someone to talk to who can't talk back and suddenly he feels the need to monologue.   
  
Or maybe John was just a crazy fucking sod who liked to talk to himself. Either/or, really.   
  
~~~   
  
When they were free of London, Lestrade led him further north, away from urban centres. The city traffic had eaten into their time, and it was already late afternoon by the time Lestrade stopped for one of his rests.   
  
The bird was agitated, shuffling from side to side on his branch and bobbing his head up and down. John leaned against the bike and watched him.   
  
'We're close, aren't we?' John asked.   
  
Lestrade clicked his beak once.   
  
John peered around. As country roads went it was nothing special. There were still houses about for fuck's sake. It was a nowhere road with nothing in the way of space, certainly not the kind of area where one could hold two or more human beings captive without being noticed. Well, at least it didn't look it. But Lestrade continued to fidget and glance aside to a distant and seemingly tiny copse of trees.   
  
'There?'   
  
Another beak snap, and more agitated bobbing.   
  
'Right.' John said. He got out his gun, checking the clip and the chamber, getting it ready to fire at a moment's notice, before putting it back in the holster. He ran a systematic check of each concealed knife on his body, making sure they could be drawn easily and instantly should he need them.  When he'd finished that, he looked up to see Lestrade staring down at him, eyes unnervingly intense and unblinking, as only a bird of prey can do.   
  
But there was something in the tilt of the PC's head that gave him an almost mystified air, and John blushed. 'Look,' he said. 'You've been watching, right? So you know…what I do.' Fuck, and now he was explaining himself to a bird. Again. This was his life.   
  
'Just stop looking at me like that, okay?' John snapped. 'I don't know what he's told you, but I'm not--' He broke off and took a moment to try and ease back the tension. 'I had to. He won't understand it, but I had no choice. He said…he knew it'd change me. He promised he'd still…' He couldn't finish, so he just kicked the front tyre of his bike, then leaned over the handlebars and cradled his head in his hands.   
  
'I just need to do this. I can't afford distractions. I just…all that matters is saving him. Right. Enough resting, Lestrade. We're going.'   
  
One snap, and the falcon took off again, heading straight for the copse.   
  
John drove the bike as close to the trees as he could get it, then killed the engine and pocketed the key. Lestrade was waiting for him on a thin tree branch beside two sickly looking birch saplings which bowed together into something of a natural arch.   
  
John raised his eyebrows. 'This?' He asked. 'A bit obvious, isn't it?'   
  
But Lestrade didn't pay him any attention. The bird's head was raised and cocked to the side, his eyes closed as though listening intently. His feathers ruffled for a moment, then he opened his eyes and his beak, letting it hang wide in what John desperately hoped was meant to be a bird-ish grin.   
  
Then Lestrade jiggled his head up and down rapidly and snapped his beak in a steady, enthusiastic beat:  _yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes._   
  
John took a deep breath and stepped through the arched trees.   
  
Nothing happened.   
  
Lestrade ruffled his feathers again and snapped his beak twice in rapid succession, a very emphatic 'no'. He hopped to the end of his thin branch, then angled his body to fit between the right-most birch and the equally sickly but unconnected tree beside it, and made a sort of gentle hop.   
  
The air swallowed him, and he was gone.   
  
John blinked, then shrugged his shoulders and angled his own body so he could sidle between the two seemingly unconnected trees, and stepped to the side.   
  
The world pressed against him, the very air suddenly thick and clinging. His lungs compressed and his skin tightened, and then he was through, on the other side of whatever had kept Sherlock hidden from him.   
  
Turned out, it was a wood. A proper, sprawling, ageless wood full of towering trees and thick undergrowth and the myriad sounds of British wildlife. He looked around, dazed, until he found Lestrade perched on a tree high above him, the dog tags glinting in the dim light filtering through the canopy.   
  
John licked his lips, letting the reality of this place settle around him, then nodded to the bird.   
  
'Lead on.'   
  
~~~   
  
Greg could bathe in the sensation he felt at being once more connected to Sherlock and Molly's minds. It was glorious, warm and rich, to not be alone anymore.   
  
But there was no time to dwell on that. He had a job to do, and a soldier boy to lead through the morass. So he sent the message ahead, finally able to bridge the gap and brush his own thoughts against Sherlock's, fragile and tentative as a spider's web, but just as hard to ignore.   
  
*I've got him, kid. We're on our way.*   
  
Sherlock's replay came not in words, but in a dizzying upswell of emotion like he'd never received from the lanky teenager before. The sheer, intoxicating  _flood_  of joy, terror, excitement, anxiety and almost debilitating love shone out like a signal fire across the distance, and Greg followed it, John Watson following close on his tail feathers.   
  
~~~   
  
*Are you all right?* Sherlock demanded, pacing along the water's edge.   
  
'Yes, Sherlock. I'm fine.' Molly sighed. 'Just like I was fine this morning. And last night. And yesterday morning. I am no less fine now than I was fourteen hours ago.' She paused. 'How are you?'   
  
*Sick.* Sherlock replied. *Dizzy. Terrified. And…fuck it's so  _difficult_  to keep my feet on the ground, Molly! I feel I could fly to Peru and back without struggling for breath. I…I almost think I can feel him getting closer. Oh God, Molly! He's getting closer!*   
  
'Do you think you're ready?'   
  
Sherlock tossed his head. *No. Never. And…always. I don't--* he broke off, distracted by the feeling of Greg's thoughts alighting over his mind.   
  
*How are we for time?*   
  
Molly cut in before Sherlock could answer. *We have plenty. The sun's still setting. The moon will be a while yet.*   
  
*Good to know. We're about a third of the way through. Fuck but this forest is big from down here. Molly?*   
  
*Yeah?*   
  
*Make it a good one, eh?*   
  
Sherlock glanced at Molly, and she smiled, her cheeks tinted pink. *I will.*   
  
~~~   
  
John pressed on through the dense foliage, frequently looking up to make sure he still had the falcon man in his sights. It was rough going, and John couldn't help but wonder if Lestrade was purposely leading him the hard way. Surely Sherlock's abductors had an easier way to get in and out than this. It looked as though his were the first human feet ever to walk here.   
  
But then, that was probably for the best. John certainly didn't want to run into any enforcers before he could reach Sherlock, and he definitely didn't want to lose whatever element of surprise he had. Even so, it was clearly getting dark and this forest seemed to just go on and on and--   
  
No. Wait. Ahead, just ahead, John could just make out something glittering and golden. He moved in closer, and now he could see a sort of path, broken twigs and bent grasses, earth compacted underfoot enough times to make John's journey much, much easier.   
  
The trees were less dense now, and John could see further ahead.   
  
Water.   
  
Around Lestrade's neck, there had been water.   
  
This water shimmered, gold and bronze under the setting sun. It was almost painfully bright after the dim, murky light of the forest, and John had to squint his eyes until they adjusted. He flexed his fingers and drew his gun, just in case.   
  
Closer, now. He could see the water's edge, the small waves lapping against a pebbled shore. He heard the now familiar flapping of Lestrade's wings, and then…something else. Something bigger, softer, a gentle hush like sinking into a feather mattress. Shadows moved over the water's surface, and through the gaps in the trees, John caught a glimpse of pure, snowy white, a flash of onyx black, and John knew. He  _knew_ , deep in his gut, why Sherlock couldn't leave this lake.   
  
He licked his lips, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then he walked to the edge of the treeline and stepped out of the forest.


	11. Chapter Eleven

The water was warm, but Sherlock was shaking. His feathers twitched and trembled as his body shivered. He was breathing too deeply, and much too quickly. His head was spinning even as his feet kicked at the water around him. He stretched his wings wide, then tucked them back in. Then he dipped his head under the water and jerked it back up. Still, he was shaking.

He felt…coiled. He wanted to fly, to run, to dive, but he restricted his movements to just the shallows, ready at a moment's notice to move out to where he could stand with just his feet in the water, to where he could look John in the eye, man to man, to where…

But his imagination failed there. He honestly couldn't see past that point, try as he might. And one horrible part of his mind continued to insist that John wasn't coming at all, that Greg's voice in his mind was all a dream, that any moment now he'd wake up.

He felt the sun slip behind the trees, and he felt the first fluttering sensations of the moon on the rise. But he heard leaves rustling, and familiar wings beating a familiar cadence against the darkening sky, and he saw a sapling bend, saw a firm hand wrap around the slender trunk, saw a boot emerge from the greenery and step onto the hard earth surrounding the lake.

He had the astonishing urge to close his eyes, to turn away, though he couldn't understand why. He stilled in his circuit of the shallows and forced himself to look, to watch as the boot was followed by leg and hip and torso and chest and--

He had changed. That was the first surreal, absurd thought which fluttered through Sherlock's head. Even from his photographs, he had changed. He was broader, darker, his hair was lighter and unmistakeably blond now. His body was slender and toned, hard muscle moving under loose fatigues, and he held a gun in his hand with the ease of familiarity, as an extension of his arm.

Then he looked up into the wide, astonished eyes, and they were so, so blue and so, so deep and Sherlock could drown in them. He wanted to drown in them.

Sherlock felt the first tingling touches of the moonlight on the water, and he it took all he had not to fly out to meet it. He forced himself to stand still, to wait for the moonlight to come to him, and he never looked away.

The moment hung between them, a condensed eternity. They stood frozen, barely breathing, and kept their eyes locked. And John began to sink to the ground, lowering himself onto one knee, then he set the gun down on the dirt and rose back to his feet; his eyes never wavered.

Sherlock stood, and he watched, and he waited, until at last he felt the moonlight on him, a tingling non-heat against his back and his neck. He kept his eyes open, and he waited for the wave to close over him.

It didn't.

Instead, Molly seemed intent on performing for her newfound audience, and seized the opportunity to show off. The water around Sherlock glowed, lighting him from beneath as the moon lit him from above, and startled him into opening his wings, which flashed sliver against the white of his feathers. Then the first thin, shimmering rivulets of water rose to spiral around him, catching the moonlight and refracting it over his body like tiny prisms.

Sherlock tore his gaze from John to follow the path of the rising water for a moment, then looked back in time to catch the stunned expression on John's face before Molly sent great swaths of water, made nearly opaque with moonlight, to twist and spiral around him in a wide, shining double helix. As it always had, the water condensed and intensified the moonlight around him, lighting his body until it shone just as brightly, becoming light itself, but this time there were gaps between the intertwining streams which allowed a glimpse of the incandescent moment preceding the transformation before the water closed over him completely, hiding him from view.

The change itself was over in a single heartbeat, and Sherlock stood surrounded by the spinning water for a moment, long enough to reach out and brush his fingers over the gently flowing surface. Then the wave shattered, scattering itself into millions of moonlit droplets which hung around him for a beat before dropping softly back into the lake. Sherlock was left standing in the shallow water as Molly took her wave and returned to the deep water.

In that moment, the slightest things stood out. Sherlock's mind seized on the chirping of the crickets, the gentle hush of the wind in the leaves, the trickling of the water as it rocked against the shore, and through it all he stood, paralyzed by his own mind. He was locked inside a storm of thoughts he couldn't hold, emotions he couldn't decypher, but the longing was so acute it hurt, and it was enough to let him raise his arm and extend his hand, enough that he could breathe John's name so hushed and so reverently it was almost a prayer.

But whatever else he was, John was still John, and he didn't think. He just did. Before Sherlock had finished saying his name, John was already closing the distance between them at a sprint. A breath later, and his boots had found the water's edge. In the next heartbeat, his powerful arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock felt himself lifted into the air, water streaming out from his feet and his trouser cuffs as John spun him round, his face split in a grin that could outshine the dawn.

'Sherlock!' He cried, and Sherlock let out a laugh from deep in his belly and tilted his head back even as he wound his arms around John's neck. But then John was standing still again and Sherlock was sliding back down to the water, his body moving against John's until his feet touched the lake bottom and his head was low enough that he could lower it just…so…

Time stopped. Thought stopped. There was nothing left in the world save John's lips against his. Two years of longing, of aching, of desperate burning condensed into one incendiary moment. John's hands clutched at him, fisting into his shirt and stroking along his spine as they pulled him in closer, closer. His own hands ran through the cropped, bristly hair on John's head, feeling it flex and shift under his fingers before falling back into place. He trailed his hands down to John's neck and up to his jaw, forcing their faces together, aligning them to kiss deeper, desperate to feel John closer than skin.

John's hands wandered, though they never once broke contact. They dragged along Sherlock's ribs, trailed down to his hips and further, to cup his buttocks and bring them close enough, hot enough to make Sherlock gasp into John's mouth.

For long moments, they forgot the world around them. They inhaled only to take in the scent of one another, exhaled only to give voice to the moans and sighs rising from their throats. They kissed to the point of pain, and past it. John's teeth found Sherlock's lower lip, adding the heady taste of blood to their connection. Sherlock's fingers managed to twine with the short hair at the nape of John's neck, crushing their lips and teeth together hard enough to bruise, and still they kissed.

John was still moving on automatic, his brain long since silenced in the rush of his body, and Sherlock felt himself lowered so his lower half was in the water whilst the rest of him was laid out on dry ground, and John was atop him, touching him, stroking him, learning every inch of him with the tips of his fingers and the palms of his hands.

Sherlock lay back and let it happen, willing to give John anything, any part of him, so long as he didn't break their kiss.

But John did break it, and Sherlock let out a straggled cry at the loss of him. Then John's burning lips seized on Sherlock's throat and the cry became a desperate moan.

'John.' He whimpered. 'John…John…oh God…John.'

John didn't speak, but he sought out the space where Sherlock's shoulder met his neck and sucked on it, hard. Sherlock yelped and arched into him, panting at the sensation of John's teeth just barely sinking into his skin.

John froze, his body tensing under Sherlock's hands, and a moment later he moved so they were once more face-to-face.

'Sherlock.' He whispered. 'Tell me this is real. Tell me I won't wake up this time.'

Sherlock pulled him back into another searing kiss, then released him. 'I'm real. This is real.'

John hung his head so it rested in the crook of Sherlock's neck, right above the newly formed love bite he'd left there. 'Prove it to me. Say something I wouldn't hear in a dream.'

Sherlock didn't hesitate, he didn't need to. 'I told you you could lift me.'

John looked up, dazed for a moment, then he laughed, deep and rich. 'Yeah.' He breathed. 'Yeah, okay.' Then their lips met again, clumsy and messy as they tried to kiss and grin at the same time.

'John...' Sherlock whispered against John's lips. 'Oh God, John, touch me.'

John laughed into the kiss. 'Touch you?' He pulled away and shook his head. 'I'm never letting you go.'

Their lips came together again, but it was brief and simple, and when John pulled away again he was giggling.

'What?' Sherlock demanded, already trying to pull him back in.

'Bare feet.' John said, and he brought his hand down to Sherlock's thigh, hitching it up to his own waist so Sherlock's foot, naked and wet, popped out of the water and into the cool night air. 'You know what that does to me.'

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed again, and John joined him.

When he could breathe again, Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and rolled them so he was the one on top. He dipped down to capture John's lips again, pinning his wrists to the ground on either side of his head.

John arched up into him, begging with his body, and Sherlock released his hands. John immediately set about touching every inch of Sherlock he could reach, fulfilling Sherlock's request and his own desperate need in one go.

'Sherlock.' He muttered around Sherlock's insistant kisses. 'Sherlock…we need…we need to--'

'No.' Sherlock begged into John's mouth. 'No, not yet. Please.' He kissed him again and again, desperate to keep the words from forming. 'Let this last. Please, not yet.'

John groaned, but he didn't try to speak again. Sherlock took the chance to reaquaint himself with John's body, to lend reality to all the fantasies he'd constructed. He catalogued John's scent, the unique texture of his wrists as opposed to his neck. And there was stubble, not as heavy as Greg's but Sherlock could feel it just barely scraping against his own face. There'd be whisker burn there, and the thought made him smile. His body was slowly altering itself under John's touch, and he wanted to claim something of his own. He leaned down and latched his lips around the skin just under John's jaw, sucking at it as John had done, marking him where it couldn’t be hidden.

'Sherlock!' John cried, and his fingers tangled into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock felt a flicker of gratitude at Molly and her ridiculous braids for keeping the rat's nest of tangles and knots at bay.

Molly.

Greg.

The thoughts started a domino effect and sent reality crashing into him, enough that he gasped against John's neck and jerked away. He tried to banish it, everything, to reclaim that red-tinged oblivion he'd found in John's body, but it didn't come. He was aware now, and he couldn't go back.

'Sherlock?'

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged away John's hand as it attempted to card through his hair.

'It's gotten longer.' John noted.

'Captivity will do that.' Sherlock said.

The words were all it took to bring the both of them entirely out of the haze they'd created. John sighed and propped himself up on his elbows as Sherlock slid back to sit on John's shins, his legs on either side of John's.

'James Moriarty.' Said John, licking his lips and schooling his features into something serious and disciplined. 'Do you know that name?'

Sherlock froze, and he fixed his eyes on John in intense scrutiny. 'How do you know about Jim?'

'Jim?' John asked. 'You're on a first name basis with him?'

'Not by choice, I assure you.' Sherlock replied. He looked up and raised his voice. 'You can stop hiding now.' He called to the wood. 'It's safe.'

Wings flapped, feathers rustled, and Greg stepped into the clearing. He took one look at the pair of them and groaned. 'Fuck, Sherlock! At least get off the man!'

Sherlock smirked. There was a giggle behind him and he turned to see Molly had silently reformed atop the water. He turned back to John, and paused.

John was gaping at Molly, his eyes wide and his mouth slack.

'John?'

John shook his head. 'Nothing…nothing. Just…she came out of the water.'

'Yeah, she is the water.' Greg said, striding up to them. 'That was a bit of her hair I had around me neck when we met.'

John clutched at his head with one hand, the other he absently trailed over the top of Sherlock's thigh. 'Right…okay.'

Sherlock smiled. 'John, this is my friend Molly.' He said, gesturing to her.

John's head snapped up. 'Molly? Molly Hooper?'

Molly frowned. '…yes?'

John stared at her for a moment, then he let out a tired laugh and collapsed onto his back. 'Fuck. Two birds with one stone, yeah?'

In the silence that followed, John took in the expressions on both Sherlock and Greg's faces and blanched. 'Right. Never using that one ever again. Got it.'

'What do you mean? How do you know her?' Sherlock demanded.

'Mycroft's been looking into things.' John explained.

'Ah.' Sherlock nodded. 'This is part of how you knew about Jim, isn't it?'

'Yeah. Babe, please don't call him that.'

Sherlock made a face. 'Don't call me "babe" again and I won't.' He paused. 'You did that on purpose, didn't you?'

John nodded. 'Of course I did, love. You're almost too easy sometimes.'

Sherlock shoved lightly at John's shoulder and got off of his legs so they could sit side-by-side, their fingers laced together.

'How?' Molly asked, settling down on the water. 'I mean, how did you find me? Er, Sherlock's brother, I mean. How did he find me? Do, um…' She swallowed against something painful, and Sherlock saw her visibly steel herself. 'Do my…my parents know?'

John sat up straighter, he shoulders squaring, and Sherlock didn't resist the temptation to run his hands over them, to feel the new and shapely muscles that hadn't been there the last time he'd felt them.

John explained Mycroft's investigation to the three of them, but Sherlock was only half interested. And that was potentially a problem, because Sherlock wasn't generally one to be distracted. But all he could truly focus on was the gentle timbre of John's voice, and how much better it sounded without the static of a dodgy phone connection in the way. His eyes were rivetted to the periodic contractions of John's throat as he breathed, and the steady bob of his adam's apple as he spoke. He was helpless to stop himself leaning down to latch his lips to the skin over one faintly flexing tendon.

'Sherlock!' John started.

Sherlock jerked away. 'What?'

'Have you heard a word I've said?'

Sherlock gave him a withering look. 'My inquiries into Carl Powers' murder got my name on several lists, leading Mycroft to believe the incident was a catalyst for Jim's interest in me. Working on that assuption he turned his investigation to the murder and the circumstances surrounding it. Does that about cover it?'

John slumped. 'Fair enough. But don't do that, it's distracting.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Fine.' He positioned himself behind John, his legs on either side of him and his arms around John's middle. He rested his chin on John's shoulder. 'Better?'

John closed his eyes and let his head fall back. 'Slightly. Just…don't move to much until I'm done, okay?'

Sherlock adopted his best expression of innocence. 'If you wish.'

'So…that's how he found me? Through Carl?' Molly asked. Her voice was far too brittle for Sherlock's liking, and he found himself once more distracted, this time by the cracks he could see growing through Molly's composure.

He didn't have to say a word. Greg was already making his way through the water to her. Sherlock could feel the sharp spike of Molly's grief in the back of his mind, even while she was human, just like he could feel Greg's worry and frustration, and John was talking and Sherlock heard him but it wasn't quite as important as the sight of Molly shrinking into herself, turning into a terrified and lonely little girl before his eyes.

John's voice tapered off, and Sherlock felt him take a deep breath. 'I can stop.'

'No, keep--' But a look from Greg and the words died in Sherlock's throat. 'Um. Yes, that may be best.'

'No.' Molly insisted. 'Keep going. We need all the information we can get.'

So John did. He finished quickly, not glossing over any details or lingering on any points. He simply stated the facts as he knew them, and Molly listened, not even trying to hide her tears but not buckling under them, either.

When John was done, she managed a wet smile. 'They're still looking for me.' She sobbed. 'All this time. I'd convinced myself they forgot, or moved on.' She looked up and met John's eyes. 'But they're still trying to find me.'

John nodded. 'I promised them I'd…that I'd try.'

Molly nodded, and drew a long breath. She let Greg tug her closer and, with a slight look of concentration, she absorbed the tears into her body until there was no sign they'd ever been.

Pulling away from Greg, she smiled shakily. 'All right. Now what?'

'Now,' Greg said with a long sigh. 'These two need to talk. Alone.'

Sherlock tensed. 'Greg?'

Greg shook his head. 'No, kid. This is for you two. Moll and I will be around, don't worry.'

'Greg, don't--'

'You can do this, Sherlock.'

John shifted round to look at him. 'Sherlock?'

Greg stood and extended a hand to Molly. She took it, and the two of them stood together for a moment. Greg flexed the fingers of his free hand and looked at John. 'Remember, soldier boy. This isn't about us. It's all for him.' He nodded at Sherlock. 'You can come back for us, someday, but not tonight.'

'Greg!' Sherlock called, but they were already walking away. 'Molly!'

Molly looked back with a sad smile, but she didn't stop walking.

In moments, they were alone, watching the shrinking figures skirting the lakeshore, hand in hand. For several long heartbeats, there was nothing but silence between them. Then John did the unthinkable. He stood up, and he moved away.

The loss of contact was like a physical blow. 'John?' He breathed, scrambling to his feet to reclaim John's bodyheat.

'No, don't.' John held up his hands and took a step back. Sherlock froze. 'We can't afford to get lost again. Not right now.'

There were hard lines in John's face now. There was a set to his jaw that made him look rigid, and older. Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and took a step back. It would have hurt less to rip out his own sternum.

'He said you were different.' John said, quiet and contemplative. 'That you weren't like him. Why is that?'

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. 'He needs proximity to the lake in order to change. I need the lake itself to survive it.'

It was either the best or the worst choice of words he could've made. John's entire body stiffened, and something flashed behind his eyes, something horribly familiar and wholly unwelcome. Moran had eyes a bit like that.

'That thing, with the water. When you changed. That's not just for show, is it?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Molly…helps. Without her the transformation could kill me.'

He could almost hear John's teeth grinding. 'Right. Right. Just…bloody fine then.'

'It doesn't hurt.' Sherlock insisted. 'With Molly. You saw, before. It's painless with her. Over in seconds.'

'And without her?' John asked, his voice lower and more level than Sherlock had ever heard it.

Sherlock worried at his lower lip, but he couldn't lie. They'd promised not to hide from each other. 'It's like all the bones are being pulled out of my body and then shoved back in in the wrong order. It's like being turned inside out and then tied into knots. It's like being crushed and stretched at the same time. It's…'

'Torture.' John said it for him.

Sherlock nodded. 'If I want to be…human, I need the water, or I won't change. And if I want to survive becoming a swan, I need Molly.' He closed his eyes. 'I'll always become a swan, John. No matter where I am. In the morning I'll change, no matter how far from here you try to take me. But at night, if I'm not standing in the lake, nothing will happen. I'll still be…'

'It takes more than a kiss, doesn't it?' John said. 'It's got to be more complicated than that.'

'Yes.'

John stepped closer, just close enough that Sherlock could feel the heat radiating from his skin, but they didn't touch. 'Tell me how I get you back.'

Sherlock fixed his eyes on the water, on the part of Molly that was always within reach. He hated the lake, and he loved it. It was his prison and his sanctuary. He wondered if he had the strength to leave it.

'It's like a fairy tale, John. He built it on love.'

'Sorry?'

Sherlock breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, and kept looking at the lake. 'It's what he wanted most, when he took me. To come between us. To…to break us apart. That's why it starts with a kiss…because that's how it all started. When we kissed at my party.'

'I don't--'

'He wants me.' Sherlock forced himself to say it. 'Not like you do. Not the way I want you. He wants to own me. He wants a minion or a general…someone he can dominate and shape however he likes. He's got Moran for brute force but he wants someone to be like him, brilliant and destructive, but devoted to him. He wants me broken. But more than that, he wants to take me away from you. He sees you as a thief. He thinks I've belonged to him since the Carl Powers case. He'd do anything to keep you from having me.'

John shook his head. 'That's…'

'Insane. Yes. He is, quite.' He drew a deep breath. 'You need to be willing to prove you want me more than he does. And that you deserve me more.'

John frowned. 'Sherlock…it doesn't work like that. I never owned you. I wouldn't want to. I'll love you until I die, but I can never own you.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Not the point. You have to love me more than he hates you.'

'Done.'

Sherlock smiled. 'It's not that easy. He did all he could to keep it from being that easy. You need to swear you'll love me forever.'

'Yes.'

'And prove it.'

'To who?'

Sherlock finally looked at him. 'To everyone. The world. We figured it out, how the spell works. It's all but written on the walls of his study. You commit yourself with a kiss, then you make a vow of everlasting love and prove it before the world assembled.'

John blinked. 'The world?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes.'

'And now I've kissed you, I've locked myself into it.'

'Yes.'

'How? Will I be compelled, or…?'

Sherlock winced. 'Now you've kissed me, you can't kiss anyone else. That's the fairy tale part. Until you break the spell, you can't kiss anyone but me, or I'll die.'

John's eyes widened. 'What?'

'Jim doesn't think you have the resolve to devote that much effort to me. He thinks you'll be tempted away. "Break his heart and it stops beating." He thinks you'll lose faith and betray me.'

John reached out and touched him then. He put a gentle hand on Sherlock's chin and made Sherlock meet his eye. 'That could never happen. And if he thinks it could he's not half so clever as he thinks he is.' As if to prove the point, he lifted his head and kissed Sherlock gently on the lips. 'And if the world is what you need, I'll give it to you.'

Sherlock furrowed his brow. 'How?'

John shrugged. 'Give me a minute. I'll think of something.'


	12. Chapter Twelve

Sherlock never was conducive to thinking. John wondered how he'd managed to forget that. Because now that tentative pocket of space between them had been breached, there was no question of reclaiming it. They weren't all over each other, not by any means. They were both still too aware of Lestrade and Miss Hooper somewhere on the edge of the lake, and John was beginning to get an inkling that the connection between those two and Sherlock was a bit more real than most.   
  
But Sherlock was busily learning him, all that intense and single-minded focus trained on mapping all there was to know about him. It really didn't make his job any easier, but he'd be a complete madman to try and stop it.   
  
Well, more of a complete madman, anyway.   
  
'They are.' Sherlock muttered as his fingertips skated along John's clavicle.   
  
'Sorry?' He asked, and his voice was just a tad too breathless for dignity.   
  
'In my head. Molly and Greg. We communicate telepathically when we're not in our human forms. Molly can even do it when she's solid, to an extent.'   
  
John smiled and lowered his head. 'But you expect me to believe you're not in mine.'   
  
Sherlock smirked. 'Clearly not. I could only dream of being that close to you.'   
  
John flinched, and before he could catch up with his own mouth he said, 'How close?'   
  
And that was wrong. Because it was accusatory and suspicious and now Sherlock was stilled against him and  _fuck_ . He'd been doing so  _well_ .   
  
Sherlock looked uncomfortable and a little lost, and John wanted to snatch the words back and bury them somewhere under the hard and the angry hiding under his skin.   
  
'Close.' Sherlock said at last. 'Closer than…than we ever were.'   
  
John tried desperately not to show the roiling, smouldering ball of anger he felt in his chest, but he couldn't keep himself from tensing as he said, 'Well we didn't set that bar particularly high, did we?'   
  
Sherlock pulled away and wouldn't meet his eye. 'You said you were glad we didn't.'   
  
John flexed his fingers to keep them from balling into fists. 'It was the right choice. But still regret it. I know I shouldn't feel like this, but I can't help it. I'm not that good of a man, Sherlock. It kills me that I haven't touched you.'   
  
'You've done little else tonight.' Sherlock pointed out.   
  
John hung his head. 'You know what I mean. I've spent so many nights wanting you. Being this close…it's cruel, Sherlock. I feel like I'm breaking apart, like if I let go of you I'll fall to bits.'   
  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then he said, 'You've been sleeping in my bedroom. I can smell it in your hair.'   
  
John nodded. 'Yes. I have.'   
  
He turned back toward John. 'Free me, and I'll join you there. God, I just--I want to go  _home_ , John.'   
  
'Then come with me!' John hissed. 'Let's leave here. Stay in the lake until…it's over and I'll take you back to Sussex with me. We'll figure it out and you'll be safe and home.'   
  
'And a sodding  _bird_ , remember?'   
  
'I don't care about that!' John insisted.   
  
'Well I do!' Sherlock shouted back. He froze, and shrunk away. 'I don't--I can't let them see me like that. See what he's reduced me to. And I can't live a life being so close to you and never able to touch or kiss you, unable to even _speak_  to you.' He let out a shaky breath. 'Anyway you can't stay here. Jim--Moriarty always comes to the water to watch me change.  He brings Moran with him. If they find you here, they will kill you.'   
  
'Who's Moran? You keep mentioning him.' John asked.   
  
'Moriarty's...I don't even know what. Hitman or servant or lover, if you believe Greg. They're almost never apart and the one thing I can tell you is he's dangerous. He likes hurting people. He gets off on it.'   
  
'Has he hurt you?' John demanded, and he couldn't help but remember Greg's answer when he'd asked that question.   
  
Sherlock paused, then he nodded. 'Yes.'   
  
John reined himself in, but it wasn't easy. He wanted his gun, still abandoned on the ground. He comforted himself with a systematic mental check of his knives, and he'd never been so glad in his life that Sherlock couldn't actually read his mind.   
  
Outwardly, he sighed and let his forehead fall against Sherlock's chest. 'We'll figure it out, I promise. I mean we can't fail, can we? Your mum would move Heaven and Earth to get you back and Mycroft's just about worked himself into the fabric of British government trying to get to you, and that's not even mentioning your dad, who's--' He broke off, something glinting in the back of his mind. Something big.   
  
'John?' Sherlock asked, letting his arms drop and taking a step closer.   
  
John said nothing, he didn't move a muscle, too afraid of losing the precious spark of an idea before it could properly catch.   
  
'John? What is it? What about my father?'   
  
John felt the smile inch its way across his lips. 'Your dad, Sherlock.' He whispered. 'Your…fucking…dad.'   
  
'What?' Sherlock furrowed his brow.   
  
But John's small smile split into a huge grin and before Sherlock could react John was on him, bowling him over and riding him to the ground until Sherlock was pinned beneath him, breathless and squirming and confused.   
  
'Your dad, Sherlock!' John repeated. 'Your dad! The sodding  _ambassador_ !'   
  
Sherlock's eyes widened, and John could practically see the idea beginning to coalesce behind them. 'John…' He breathed, in that same delectibly reverent voice he'd used before.   
  
'He's been working dignitaries from all over the world ever since you were taken!' John hissed, giddy with excitement. 'He's got Mycroft just about into Parliament by now. Hell, your brother practically  _is_  the CCTV network. All I've got to do is say the word and he can have them back! The whole world, Sherlock. Assembled.'   
  
Sherlock's mouth fell open, and his breathing quickened. 'John! Do you…can he?'   
  
'For you?' John smiled. 'Sherlock, he'd pull down the moon for you.'   
  
Sherlock beamed then, and he tugged John down by his hair and kissed him, hard and hungry.   
  
'I told you.' John panted once he'd been released. 'That I'd give you the world.'   
  
'When?' Sherlock breathed.   
  
John closed his eyes and ducked his head, trying to think. 'A week is too short notice. If we want to get as many representatives as possible, we'll need more time.' He looked up again and briefly siezed Sherlock's lips in another kiss. 'Oh, but not too long! Neither of us can survive that. Two weeks?'   
  
Sherlock frowned, but he nodded. 'Tell me. I'll be ready.'   
  
John huffed. 'Right, okay. Um…today's Thursday…two weeks from Saturday.' He said with finality. 'I will make this happen, Sherlock. I'll get them all together, I'll tell them all how much I love you, how I'll always love you. And you'll be there, and we'll show them.' He smirked. 'The whole world can watch us dance.'   
  
Sherlock's body tensed beneath him, then shuddered. 'I'd like to dance with you again.' He whispered. 'Only you.'   
  
John pressed his lips to the underside of Sherlock's jaw. 'I love you.' He breathed. 'I will give you the world, and when I have, you still owe me that week in bed.'   
  
Sherlock gave a low, dark chuckle that sent shivers down John's spine. 'And you shall have it,  _mon coeur_ .'   
  
John shivered again and rested his forehead against the crook of Sherlock's neck. 'Shit. God I've been needing that.'   
  
He felt Sherlock smirk against him. 'Have you now?'   
  
John nodded and moaned. 'Fucking withdrawal, mate.'   
  
Sherlock surged beneath him and suddenly he was on his back again, gazing up into Sherlock's astounding face, captivated by those full and sensuous lips.   
  
' _Mon coeur_ .' He repeated, ducking to kiss at John's neck. ' _Mon loup._ ' Another kiss, and John's toes were curling inside of his boots. ' _Mon brave soldat._ ' And Sherlock was attacking his neck now, fervent enough to make John arch his body involuntarily into the heat Sherlock had to offer. He was getting hard, and he knew Sherlock could feel it.   
  
'We can't.' He gasped. 'Not here! Sherlock!'   
  
'Need you.' Sherlock whimpered against his skin. 'Please!'   
  
John blinked, clawing his way back to coherance. 'Sh-Sherlock! Soon! Oh, Christ, soon!'   
  
' _Now_ .' Sherlock snarled, tugging at John's shirt. 'No more waiting.'   
  
John groaned, he could feel his resolve weakening. 'The others! Fffuck! Sherlock what about--?'   
  
Sherlock stiffened and gave his own, far less encouraging, groan. 'Damn.' He cursed.   
  
'Soon.' John panted, pressing a hand to Sherlock's cheek. 'I promise you.'   
  
Sherlock slumped, then he perked up, his eyes bright and clever. He stood and hurried to the lake, thrusting both of his hands into the water.   
  
'Sherlock?' John called.   
  
'Hush! It's very, very difficult in this form. I need to concentrate.'   
  
John watched in silence as Sherlock's body tensed, his head twitched, then he went loose and slack again and stood up.   
  
'What did you do?' John asked.   
  
'I sent them a message.' Sherlock said. 'No words or anything, it's much too complex in this body, but simple emotions are manageable enough.' He grabbed John by the arm and tugged him upright, pulling in the direction of the small, primitive hut nearby.   
  
'What did you send them?' John asked, allowing Sherlock to pull him to his feet. They moved together toward the hut, their fingers intertwined.   
  
'Joy. Yearning. Lust. Desperation. They'll get the message. Molly is quite adept at translating this sort of thing.'   
  
John stopped short, but he didn't let go of Sherlock's hand. 'Sherlock, does this mean we're,' He gestured futilly between them. 'Are we really going to…?'   
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 'Have sex? Yes, I rather thought that was the idea.'   
  
John licked his lips. 'Are you sure? I mean, completely sure? This is what you want?'   
  
Sherlock worried at his bruised lower lip. 'John. Do you remember that conversation we had on the phone? The one where I talked about letting you carry me?'   
  
John moaned low in his throat. 'God yes.'   
  
Sherlock smiled. 'I told you then that I trusted you, that I'd jump into your arms and let you take me wherever you wished, because I knew I'd be safe.'   
  
'Yeah. You did that to torture me, didn't you?'   
  
Sherlock's smile widened. 'A bit. But it was all true. So this is me, jumping into your arms.' He gently grabbed John by the chin so they could look eye-to-eye. 'Are you brave enough to jump into mine?'   
  
John grinned, and pulled Sherlock the rest of the way into the hut, pulling the rough-hewn door closed behind them.   
  
The inside of the hut was bare, save for a bed of soft grasses and moss, large enough for two. John tried not to think about Sherlock and Lestrade and how 'close' they had become, but something must've shown on his face because Sherlock wrapped his arms around John from behind and spoke low into his ear.   
  
'He held me during the storms. He eased the pain from my back after a flight, and he helped me sleep when I couldn't stop my mind churning, but he never touched me the way you're about to, so stop worrying.'   
  
The noise that came from John's larynx was astonishingly close to a growl, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. Nor did he mind the way John pushed him down onto the mossy bed before diving on top of him. He threw his head back and laughed.   
  
'I don't have any--' John began.   
  
'Shush.' Sherlock interrupted. 'Nor should you have. And I obviously don't. We'll make do. When I'm free, we'll do everything, but tonight we can do just enough.'   
  
John nodded, then he let Sherlock pull him into another kiss as his fingers sought the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock slipped the jacket from John's shoulders and worked his shirt free of his trousers until Sherlock's cool hands were pressed against John's warm chest, skin to skin.   
  
They made love that night, in Sherlock's earthen shelter. It was sweet and rough and a bit ridiculous, and they laughed and gasped into each other's mouths, fumbled and tripped over each other's bodies until they found the secrets they'd dreamt of revealing for so long. And when it was over they lie in each other's arms, shivering and naked in the night and fighting back the tears of another good-bye they couldn't bear to say. They whispered 'I love you's and traded desperate kisses, and John put his clothes back on and left the hut, Sherlock close behind him.   
  
Lestrade and Molly Hooper returned moments later, Lestrade slightly winded. They bounded over just as John was tucking his gun back into its holster.   
  
'Just spotted them crossing the borderline. They'll be here in a few minutes. Jim won't waste time, so close to sunrise.' He warned.   
  
Sherlock whirled round to grasp John by the wrists. 'He can't find you!'   
  
John pulled on hand free and used it to smooth a bit of hair behind Sherlock's ear. 'I can hide.'   
  
'Too dangerous.' Lestrade said. 'Not a good idea, not when it all hinges on you.'   
  
Sherlock whimpered and tugged John close. 'Please.' He whispered. 'I can't lose you again.'   
  
John carded a hand through Sherlock's thoroughly disshevelled hair. 'You told my yourself, love. If I stay I'm dead.'   
  
'Find a way! You're clever, John! I'm sorry I never believed it before. I was an idiot, you're so, so clever. Find a way to stay with me!'   
  
John wrapped his arms as tightly as he could around his lover. His lover. Christ. At last. 'I'm spent, Sherlock. I've given you all I've got for tonight. I need to get back, start planning. I  _will_  finish this.'   
  
'We're running out of time, here!'  Lestrade snapped. 'I appreciate how hard this is for you, but I cannot make that car go any slower.'   
  
'John!' Sherlock sobbed, clutching tight even as John pulled away. 'I love you.'   
  
John broke. He use the hand still grasping Sherlock's to pull him close and kiss him again, harder, more desperately than any that had come before.   
  
It was as brief as it was intense, and when John pulled away it was with a firm, 'I love you, too.' Then, because he had to, he turned his back and walked away, trying to close his ears to the sound that came from Sherlock's throat when he did.   
  
He could do this. Just one foot in front of the other. Just keep walking. And then Sherlock let out a wounded breath behind him and he was still  _too close_  and he could almost feel it on the back of his neck so he sped up into a jog, but oh God, Sherlock was  _right behind_  him and he was still closer to Sherlock than he was to the forest and it was like he could feel Sherlock's body heat still ghosting against his skin and it was too much. Entirely too much.   
  
_If I look back_ , he said to himself.  _I won't be able to leave. I'll stay and I'll stand and I'll die. Don't look back._   
  
There wasn't much distance left between him and the trees now, and he took it at a full sprint, desperate to put space between him and temptation. He burst through the foliage, stumbling and tripping on the undergrowth and he was nowhere near the footpath he'd used before, but he didn't care. He staggered until he found a tree trunk thick enough to support his weight, and he waited for the world to settle down and come back into focus.   
  
It took too long to blink the saltwater from his eyes, to calm the heaving in his chest, and it took everything he had to remain standing when every part of his body ached and all he wanted was to sink to his knees and stay there.   
  
Instead he stood, relying on the tree as though it were his own spine. He forced himself back under control and began a systematic scan of the environment. He pushed everything John as deep as it would go and focussed instead on sounds, scents, patterns of light and shadow, the movements of the air around him.   
  
So when Lestrade made his near-silent way to John's location, it didn't come as a surprise. And when Lestrade stuffed his hands in his pockets and jerked his head back toward the lake, though in a new direction, John followed without hesitation.   
  
'It's not over yet.' Lestrade kept his voice low rather than whispering. 'Sherlock's done his part. He told you what he could. But he doesn't know you the same way I do.'   
  
John didn't respond. He was too tired, and Lestrade was right. The officer led him around the lake, keeping deep enough in the trees to avoid detection, until they came to a secluded stand on a hill overlooking the clearing. John could see two men, one small and slight, the other tall and muscled, sauntering down an earthen path leading from the large house on the hill.   
  
'Time for you to see who you're fighting, soldier.' Lestrade nodded to the two men making their way toward Sherlock and Molly. 'Meet the enemy.'   
  
~~~   
  
It had to be done. John needed all the information he could get, needed to understand all the cards in play, and it needed to be Lestrade who showed him. Sherlock didn't need to see this part of the story just yet.   
  
Together, they watched Moriarty and Moran's approach. Greg caught his breath and kept his voice low. 'This will get ugly. He's like your boy. He sees things. He's gonna know. The second he sees Sherlock. I mean, hell,  _I_  could tell.'   
  
'I'll manage.' John replied.   
  
Greg nodded, but he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. He'd had his fill of bravado. It got old after a while.   
  
'Okay, the little guy is Jim. You probably figured that out.'   
  
'Yeah.'   
  
'He's twisted, Watson. Completely off his nut. I've seen inside his lab or whatever. I mean, I've seen a few stalkers in my career, but he takes the cake. Jim will do absolutely  _anything_  to have Sherlock to himself.'   
  
John's jaw flexed, and Greg could practically hear the teeth grinding.   
  
'But he's not the one you need to worry about.' Greg went on. He nodded to the towering man walking a few steps behind Jim. 'That's Sebastian Moran. Everything Sherlock doesn't know you are for him? That's what Seb is to Jim. There is nothing Seb won't do if Jim gives the order. You think you're hard? Seb's been killing since secondary, and he loves it. Gets off on it. He likes pain, likes how it looks. Especially on Sherlock.'   
  
John's body went rigid, and Greg almost bit his tongue, but John had to know. They could hear Jim talking now, and Greg could see John flinching at the bizarre, psychotically playful delivery.   
  
'He knows guns, he knows knives, loves to use his fists. He favours strangling if he gets the chance, but he'll usually sink a knife into you if he fancies hearing the sounds.'   
  
John swallowed thickly and nodded.   
  
'Watch him. Tell me when you're ready.'   
  
John fixed his eyes on Sebastian, who was standing in a loose interpretation of At Ease with a lopsided grin on his face. Whenever Moriarty moved, Moran moved, too, and John's eyes tracked every step, every shift of weight.   
  
'It'll turn ugly soon.' Said Greg, and sure enough, Sherlock was standing defiant against Jim's accusations and taunts. They couldn't quite make out what was being said from their position, and Greg was perfectly okay with that. He knew Jim well enough, he could guess. Sherlock had a few very obvious love bites on his neck, his shirt was untucked and rumpled, his hair was a complete mess, his lips were red and kiss-swollen. Jim would have spotted it in milliseconds.   
  
He didn't catch the cue, but suddenly Moran was moving, liquid fast, and he had Sherlock's arms pinned behind his back. Sherlock struggled and spat, kicking out and thrashing in Seb's hold.   
  
'Good, Sherlock.' John breathed. 'Just like that. Fight back.'   
  
Greg shook his head, but continued to watch as Sherlock gradually exhausted himself, finally hanging limp from the uncomfortable position, his tangled hair hanging in front of his face.   
  
Jim slithered up to him, muttered something into his ear, then grabbed a fistful of hair and  _yanked_  so Sherlock was forced to meet his eye. He continued talking in a low voice that didn't carry. Sherlock responded, more audibly, and Greg could hear the fury in his voice.   
  
Jim laughed, then. That much Greg could hear clearly. Jim used the grip he had on Sherlock's hair to angle Sherlock's head away from him, then with a wicked grin he stuck out his tongue and licked a large swath directly over the bruise left by John's mouth. Sherlock bucked and thrashed again, but Seb did something with his arms and Sherlock cried out in pain.   
  
Greg risked a glance at John, then quickly looked away again. The soldier's eyes were burning inside a perfectly motionless face. He may have been looking at Moran, studying his movements and his techniques, but more likely he was fixed on Sherlock, now curled up and retching on the ground.   
  
'John?'   
  
'This was our night.' John muttered. 'They took it from us. Soiled it. It was ours.'   
  
Greg licked his lips and nodded. 'Soon, soldier boy. I promise. First break the spell, then Seb is all yours. Sherlock will handle Jim.'   
  
John nodded once, then turned away smartly, almost an about face. 'Done here.' He said, striding off with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders unnaturally stiff. 'I've seen enough.'


	13. Chapter Thirteen

The hard was back again, but it was different. He still felt armoured, shielded off from anything vulnerable or soft, but now it was like tempered steel instead of heavy iron. Lighter, more flexible. He could feel the delicate precision of Sherlock's fingertips stroking along his skin, and however cold he made his blood he felt the heat of Sherlock's body curled up in his chest, keeping him from freezing over.   
  
He felt complete again.   
  
At the edge of the hidden forest, he'd made a token effort to have Lestrade accompany him back to Sussex, but he didn't put up a fight when the copper opted instead to make sure Sherlock was okay after Moriarty's visit.   
  
John didn't even try to deny the white-hot jealousy he felt knowing it was Lestrade who would be soothing Sherlock's sore and injured body instead of him. It was all fuel, anyway. It just served to make him sharper. Each stab of misery was more reason to take Moriarty and Moran down. He wasn't even sure anymore why smiling at that thought was supposed to be a bad thing. He wanted those miserable cunts to suffer, and he wanted to be the one to do it.   
  
The idea made him smile all through London, until he passed the tiny flat on Montague Street, then he was hit with sense memories of Sherlock's warm, eager body writhing beneath him, so strong it was like a physical blow.   
  
There was a bed in that flat. A bed they would share. Every night, wrapped around each other. Every night. They would sleep in that bed, together. They would fuck in that bed, they would make love and shag and snog and tumble and even just laze about. He would bring Sherlock breakfast on a tray for his birthday while Sherlock lounged in that bed. They would stay up until morning just talking in the dark, whispering secrets and desires and confessions until they could no longer keep their eyes open. All of it, on that bed just two floors up.   
  
He thought of quiet afternoons on the sofa in front of the telly. He thought of blearily stumbling into the kitchen in the morning to make coffee and/or tea, depending on Sherlock's preference that week. He thought of massive rows and dishes thrown against walls, he thought of whispered apologies and tentative kisses and mind-blowing make-up sex. He imagined a life lived in tandem, all of it condensed into that tiny, damn near pathetic flat with its one bedroom and tiny bath and its lounge/kitchen combination spilling over with Sherlock's ever-expanding chemistry equipment.   
  
He thought of anniversaries, Christmases, reunions. He thought of a whole future lived with Sherlock beside him and he couldn't drive any longer. He pulled over and got off the bike, leaning against the nearest wall before his knees gave out. He slid to the ground, buried his face in his arms, and cried.   
  
He couldn't say if they were tears of joy or tears of misery, but there were a lot of them, and they kept coming, hot and stinging, until he had no more strength to produce them. When they were finished with him, he stood, got back on the motorbike, and drove back to Sussex, to their family, and to the next step.   
  
~~   
  
'How's that?' Molly asked, the last drops of water falling from her fingertips to land on Sherlock's neck. 'Feel better?'   
  
*No.* Sherlock grumbled. *I can still feel it.* He sighed and spread his wings out to skim along the surface of the water, adjusting his head on Molly's lap to a more comfortable position.   
  
'Worth it though, eh?' Greg grinned. 'I mean, all the bits leading up to it. The cause. Worth it in the end, right?' He winced and rotated his arm, shifting uncomfortably with his sore shoulders.   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes, remembered John panting above him, laughing into his mouth, gasping his name into his ear. *Definitely.* He said, putting the smile he couldn't form with his face into his voice.   
  
Greg shifted and cleared his throat, eyes flitting from side to side without really settling. 'So…John. He's, uh. He's…'   
  
'I like him!' Molly piped up, almost squeaking her enthusiasm. 'He's sweet, and so handsome!'   
  
'Man knows how to hold a gun, that's certain.'   
  
Sherlock turned his head to better look at Greg. *There are so many things I want to ask you.* He said quietly.   
  
Greg shifted his weight and slouched forward, his shoulder blades standing sharply against the worn fabric of his shirt. 'I know.' He said.   
  
*Would you tell me?*   
  
Greg closed his eyes, breathed deeply for a moment. 'Two years ago, I loved this girl. She was…' He blew an appreciative puff of air through his lips. 'I was mad on her. We were gonna be married. I saved up for almost a year to get that damn ring. Then I find myself here, like this. And now, if and when…I've got no one. She's gone off and found herself some other bloke, my family…' He shook his head. 'But you? Kid, you've got people who love you so hard it's breaking them. When John gets you out of here, and he  _will_  get you out of here, you've got a home waiting for you. That's more than most people can say.'   
  
Sherlock tucked his wings close to his body. *John says that.* He said.   
  
'Says what?'   
  
*About love. How it's hard. Most people say "so much" or "so deeply". But John calls it loving hard, he says it's like anything else worth doing, there's no point unless you're going to give it everything you have.*   
  
Molly laughed a gentle, breathy laugh. 'No wonder you fell for him. If he puts that kind of dedication behind everything.'   
  
*Quite. He'll make a very good doctor.*   
  
'I'm sure. If his performance tonight is any indication.' She snorted.   
  
*Hm?*   
  
'I mean,' Molly went on. 'By the end of it I wasn't even sure I  _had_  knees anymore! You haven't given off a signal that strong since your first day here!'   
  
Sherlock lifted his head and blinked at her. Then the ideas slotted into place and, oh God. His eyes went wide and with a startled trumpet he flapped his wings and tumbled away from her, his feathers ruffling in agitation. *You-- I-- we-- oh God!*   
  
Molly giggled, then chortled, then she was laughing so hard no sound was coming out and she clutched at her stomach.   
  
Greg shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his knees. 'Jesus, Moll.'   
  
'Sorry!' Molly gasped around her laughter. 'But…the look…on your faces!'   
  
*Oh Christ.* Sherlock moaned. *And I thought Jim's tongue was mortifying!*   
  
Greg held up his hands. 'Hey, don't look at me! I was patrolling the perimeter. I felt absolutely nothing.'   
  
'Well you missed out.' Molly told him, finally getting herself back under control, though she was a bit watery around the edges. 'It would seem our Mr Watson is quite talented. I highly doubt Sherlock would be  _that_  easy to please.'   
  
Greg's face reddened and Sherlock tucked his face under his wing. 'Molly!'   
  
'What?!' Molly asked. 'I only mean that Sherlock is a very lucky boy!' She paused. 'Although you did feel a bit surprised. All that time together growing up and you never snuck a peek? Ooh! Was it very big?'   
  
Greg slapped a hand over his face and groaned. 'Molly, for the love of God stop talking!'   
  
Sherlock, for his part, ducked his head under the water in a valient attempt to drown himself. But Molly went liquid and folded herself around him, pushing him up to the surface and reforming her body around his so he was once more in her lap.   
  
'Oh, I'm sorry. You two just make it so easy!'   
  
Sherlock shuddered. *You really felt it? All of it?*   
  
Molly gave him a look. 'You know it doesn't work that way. I felt the strong bits, the sudden ones. It's not like I got pictures. Come now, I'm happy for you!'   
  
'I'm not!' Greg grumbled. 'Little wanker got some before I did! He's only been here three months!'   
  
*Mm, but I've gone considerably longer without than you have, Greg.* Sherlock pointed out.   
  
Greg eyed him. 'How long?'   
  
Sherlock tilted his head in mock consideration. *Oh…I'd say about…nineteen years?*   
  
Molly spasmed underneath him and splashed into the water, leaving him to flap his wings frantically to regain equilibrium. Greg just stared at him, wide-eyed. 'No shit?'   
  
Sherlock shook his head.   
  
'So that was your…first?' Molly sputtered once she'd reformed.   
  
*It's not that big a deal.* Sherlock said.   
  
'I hate you so much.' Greg muttered. 'My first time I got elbowed in the ribs and damn near chipped a tooth! You get a fucking Mills and Boon experience.'   
  
'I haven't even gotten my first time yet.' Molly pointed out. 'So shut it.'   
  
Greg did, and the three of them were quiet for a moment. Then Greg said, 'So…how come you never told us about your dad?'   
  
Sherlock sighed and hitched up his wings in something like a shrug. *There wasn't much to tell. He married my mother five months after Mycroft was concieved. He's the British ambassador to France when he's got the time. He favours Dickens, but he'll read Jules Verne if he's feeling whimsical. He's got over five hundred ties, and none of them are yellow. Beyond that…* He shrugged again. *I wasn't sure he even knew I was gone.*   
  
Molly shifted atop the water. 'But John said…well, you heard.' She gestured helplessly into the empty air.   
  
*Yes.' Said Sherlock. 'Yes, he did.*   
  
Greg furrowed his brow and sort of puffed out his lips. 'So…'   
  
*I believe him.* Sherlock said, perhaps a touch to quickly. *I mean, of course I do. It's just…unexpected. I'm…really not sure what to think.*   
  
Greg shrugged. 'Well he's your dad, isn't he? At the end of the day, I mean.'   
  
Sherlock nodded. *I'm…it's been a long morning. My head is killing me. I think it'd be best if I just went to sleep now.*   
  
'Of course, Sherlock.' Molly soothed, she ran one gentle hand over his forehead and the tension eased a bit. 'Everything's different now. We need to be ready.'   
  
'Yeah. I'll pop off to Sussex in a couple of days. See how things are going.' Greg added. 'You're almost free, kid.'   
  
Sherlock smiled as best he could. It came off as a slight crinkling around the corners of his eyes, obscured by feathers but there just the same. *I will free you.* He promised.   
  
He didn't say,  _I must._  He didn't say,  _I don't think I know how to live without you anymore._  They knew already, and he hated to state the obvious.   
  
Greg smiled, and Molly pulled him close, tucking his feathery body against her firm torso so he could rest his head across her thighs. For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock allowed himself to imagine a bed just large enough for two, moonlight across rumpled sheets, and John's golden arm wrapped around him as he slept.   
  
He closed his eyes, and willed himself to dream.   
  
~~~   
  
Basil Holmes was a disappointing father.   
  
It was true. No matter how you justified or rationalised it, he just didn't measure up to any sort of standard. Even now, when his every waking moment seemed to be devoted to the recovery of his son, Basil's most apparent feature was his absence.   
  
Mycroft wasn't sure when the office had stopped being his father's and had become, in his mind at least, his own. But it had happened somewhere along the way and Mycroft highly doubted his father would mind. After all, he was hardly ever in it himself.   
  
Downstairs, a door slammed. Voices, raised and tense, rang through the corridors. Mycroft shook his head. Not another row. Why did John always have to bring such anger with him? He was like a tempest loosed from the teacup.   
  
He walked around his desk to the chair and was about to pick up the stack of reports again when another sound made him pause. Was that…laughter? He'd almost forgotten the sound. Had Harry brought a girl over?   
  
He shook his head. It didn't matter, not when there was work to be done. Maybe they could forget the gaping hole in their family, the emptiness and silence where Sherlock should be, but he couldn't. He wouldn't.   
  
James Moriarty. He was the key to this. Somehow, this was all his doing. He settled back in his chair and began to leaf through the papers until he found where he had left off.   
  
Naturally, John chose that moment to slam the door against the wall as though it had insulted his mother and start babbling at him. Mycroft gritted his teeth and tried to block him out. It was childish, yes, and stupid. But he didn't care. He had work to do and if John was going to drag him back into that mire of resentment and blame then he could bloody well wait a moment.   
  
'…the most incredible thing I've ever seen…'   
  
Why was he so breathless? Didn't he ride that infernal motorbike of his? Surely the exertion wasn't that great. No, focus. James Moriarty. Bendel's newest report showed promise, something about a shooting in the TA, a young man presumed to be a soldier called Moran.   
  
'…so beautiful. So god damned beautiful…'   
  
Swearing again. Honestly, did Her Majesty's armed forces forcibly remove any hint of civility after joining? John came home using the word 'fuck' as punctuation. Mycroft wished John would reach the end of his rant soon. It was difficult to concentrate with all that nattering. Couldn't he see? Didn't he realise what Mycroft was trying to do? Once it was done, once he'd located Sherlock and brought him home, John could forgive him and everything could go back to the way it was. The way it should be.   
  
'Mycroft.'   
  
John voice was softer now, and a steady hand appeared at the top of the paper Mycroft was holding and gently lowered it to the desk.   
  
'Mycroft.'   
  
'I'm  _working_ , John.' Mycroft sighed. 'We're close.'   
  
John shifted his weight, and the hand relocated to Mycroft's shoulder. 'Mycroft.' He said again. 'Look at me.'   
  
Mycroft raised his eyes, braced for the cold anger he always saw when he met John's.   
  
It wasn't there.   
  
Mycroft felt his mouth go slack, his jaw dropping. John was… _smiling_ . His hair, short as it was, was mussed, though that could be from the helmet he'd worn. His lips were red, though, and bruised. Yes, possible someone had punched him in the mouth, but the pattern was all wrong, too localised, to specific.   
  
But his neck. There was absolutely no way to mistake what was on his neck. It was just below his jaw, an angry red and purple blotch the precise size and shape of a human mouth. The placement was tricky, deliberate. It could only have formed that way if John had arched back his head, bared his throat, invited…   
  
'Oh God.' Mycroft breathed, and John grinned wider.   
  
John was a man wrapped in defenses. He kept his hands free and open at all times. He carried his gun as a matter of course. He had more concealed knives than Harry had shoes. John Watson would never bare his throat to another human being, never put himself in a position of such obvious vulnerability. Not for anyone.   
  
Not for anyone but Sherlock.   
  
And John was  _smiling_ .   
  
'It worked.' Mycroft whispered. 'You found him.'   
  
'I found him, Mye.' John beamed. 'I found him. I held him. He was so warm, so gorgeous. Perfect.'   
  
'How?' Mycroft asked. 'I mean,  _how_ ? And where is he? Why didn't you bring him back?'   
  
John's face fell. 'I…couldn't.'   
  
Mycroft glared at him. 'You couldn't. What, there wasn't time? You had time to shag him, but you couldn't find a spare second to  _bring my brother back_ ?'   
  
'Don't.' John said. He didn't raise his voice, and he didn't change his posture, but he put enough sharp, glittering steel into the word that Mycroft, grudgingly, fell silent.   
  
'There are reasons. They're…fucking insane and ridiculous and you wouldn't believe me if I told you what they are, but there are reasons. Good ones. Undeniable ones. After all this, do you honestly believe I'd have left him if I had the choice? If there was any way to get him back, do you honestly think I'd hesitate to take it?'   
  
Mycroft lowered his head. It was as close to a slump as he dared anymore. 'No. No of course not.'   
  
They studiously avoided looking at each other. Then Mycroft asked, 'What happens next?'   
  
John looked up. 'We need your dad. We need everyone. Two weeks from Saturday, we need to get as many of your dad's foreign contacts together as we possibly can.'   
  
Mycroft furrowed his brow. 'But why?'   
  
John's lips split into a grin again, and Mycroft almost didn't recognise the expression on John's face. He hadn't seen it in so very long. 'Because the story's almost over, Mye. And I, for one, want to make sure it has a happy ending.'


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Sherlock's hands were not shaking. They weren't. They  _had_  been, but they weren't now and that was important, because that meant it really wasn't fair of Greg to whimper theatrically and try to squirm away before Sherlock could even touch his fucking back.   
  
'Ow!' Yelped Greg. 'Owowowow! Fuck, Sherlock, are you trying to kill me?!'   
  
Sherlock gritted his teeth. 'I told you Molly could do this better.'   
  
'Molly is-- _aagh!_ \--surrounded by water.'   
  
'I don't care. If you continue to carry on like that I've half a mind to dump you in the lake. This was  _your_  stupid idea.'   
  
'Oh please don't.' Molly drawled. 'His hair's so oily I fear for the fish.' As though to illustrate the point she levitated a globe of water with a shimmering perch inside and let it circle her before dropping it gently back into the lake.   
  
'I heard that!' Greg shouted. Then, 'Ow! Fuck! Is there any actual skin on your fingers or are you digging into me with bare bones?'   
  
Sherlock sighed. 'I'm learning, all right?' He couldn't hold back a smirk, though, as he worked his fingers into the copious knots under Greg's skin. It couldn't be too bad, really, not when he was carrying on like this. Better by far than the near-silent whimpers and sobs he'd tried to hold back when they'd started.   
  
'Thank you.' Sherlock said after a while, before Greg could loose another volley of half-sincere complaints. 'For bringing him here.'   
  
Greg was quiet for a while, though he flinched a little when Sherlock's thumbs pressed into a large and tender knot beside his spine. 'I had to.' He said at last.   
  
'You didn't. He can't save you or Molly.'   
  
'You don't know that. He got you the fucking world, didn't he?'   
  
'I think what Greg means is, we're your friends. We'd do anything for you.' Molly offered, and she slid closer, which was a bit eerie since she didn't actually move her body to do it.   
  
'Yeah, that and I couldn't stand any more of your moping.' Greg added.   
  
Sherlock pulled his lips into a tight smile. 'Do you know, I think I'm getting the hang of this.' He dug his thumbs viciously into the knot and Greg screamed before he could bite back the sound.   
  
'See?' Sherlock said innocently.   
  
'I…am going…to pluck your feathers tomorrow.' Greg kept his voice even. 'One by sodding one.'   
  
'Oh behave, the pair of you!' Molly chided. 'Or I'll make you.'   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and Greg snickered. 'I'd like to see you try.' Said Greg.   
  
'Very well.' Said Molly. She cocked her forefinger and her thumb as though they were a gun and gave a little jerk. A thin stream of water shot out from her fingertip to land on Greg's shoulder.   
  
'Hey!' He cried.   
  
Molly laughed, and did it again, this time hitting Sherlock's ear dead-on.   
  
'Stop that!' He snarled, swatting at his ear and shaking his head to dislodge the water.   
  
Molly only giggled. 'Oh, I can't believe I never tried this before!' She let off a volley of jets from both index fingers, each one hitting its mark on either Sherlock or Greg. Sherlock was almost sure heheard her make soft  _pew pew pew_  noises.   
  
'All right, that's it!' Greg called with a grin. He got to his feet and crashed into the water, using his arms to send large, ragged waves at Molly's skirts. She squealed and threw up her hands protectively, even as the waves sailed harmlessly through her, leaving her dry as a bone.   
  
'Come on, Sherlock, help me! She can't block 'em all!'   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'You're insane, the pair of you!' But he knew he was smiling too widely to conceal.   
  
'And you're boring!' Molly cried, then she shrieked and laughed at the same time as a particularly enthusiastic wave smaked against her hip and actually made contact, soaking the lower half of her dress.   
  
Sherlock glared. 'Take that back!'   
  
'Never!' Greg sneered. 'You, little man, are tedius, tiresome  _and_  dull!'   
  
'You asked for this!' Sherlock called back, rushing into the water and body-slamming Greg into the water with a massive splash.   
  
Greg surfaced a beat before Sherlock, gasping as the water cascaded from his hair, nose and chin. 'Oh, you're dead!' He shouted, and he put both hands on top of Sherlock's head and pushed him under the water, accidentally-on-purpose overbalancing himself and toppling away long before Sherlock had a chance to struggle for breath.   
  
It all got a bit silly after that. The three of them, giddy with something they couldn't yet name, passed the darkest hours of the night playing in the shallows of the lake that kept them all prisoner, and they tasted freedom on the backs of their tongues and couldn't help but smile from it.   
  
Later, when the three of them lay gasping and soaked on either side of the shoreline, Molly spoke up.   
  
'I think I broke Jim.' She said.   
  
Greg lifted his head. 'Hm?'   
  
So Sherlock and Molly filled him in on the confrontation and Molly's shattering of Jim's control. Greg didn't take the news well, particularly the part where Molly lost her powers and vanished into the lake, and where Sherlock faced the sunrise alone; but he was clearly impressed with Molly's newfound strength.   
  
'He said he'd fix the spell, make it tougher, but I don't feel any different.' Molly said when Greg was up to speed.   
  
'My current hypothesis is that direct contact with water under Molly's control may have seriously damaged some aspect of Jim's power.' Sherlock supplied.   
  
'But that's good, right?' Greg asked. 'I mean, it gives us a leg up. If Molly's free to act against Jim--'   
  
'She's still a prisoner.' Sherlock cut him off. 'She can't move out of the water and her control vanishes past the boundary line.'   
  
'We tried it, as soon as I got my body back.' Molly said. 'Nothing's different.'   
  
'Something is.' Said Greg, tucking his knees closer to his chest. 'Now he knows we can fight back.'   
  
~~~   
  
John was pretty sure he'd exceeded the recommended dosage of paracetamol about twelve pills ago, but he had a hard time caring. He closed his eyes and tossed back two more, chasing them with a glass of water.   
  
He rubbed his face and felt two days' worth of stubble on his chin. He gazed out at the meticulously arranged seating charts and personnel lists and personal profiles strewn about the kitchen table and groaned. His ears were ringing even after the phones had stopped, and the kitchen was swarmed with staff and family coming and going, usually with cordless phones all but welded to their ears and heaps of folders and papers in their arms.   
  
'Remind me again.' He gritted out.   
  
'You love him.' Mike said, ticking off on his fingers. 'He means everything to you. You'd die for him. It's all worth it in the end.'   
  
The phone rang  _yet again_  and John whimpered. 'Mike…please…'   
  
Mike chuckled at shook his head, reaching for the kitchen phone. 'I swear, take a soldier out of the warzone and they're bloody useless. Hello?'   
  
'Peace. Keeping. Mission.' John grunted, then he let his forehead fall against the kitchen table. The wood was smooth and slick with polish, and it felt cool against his skin. Guns, he could handle. Knives, blood, shouting, chaos, he was good with that. If Sherlock needed him to walk through the fires of Hell with a rifle and a compass he'd do it, gladly. No problem.   
  
But all of this…diplomacy. All the constant phone calls and the faux-royal egos and the conditions and provisions and don't sit so-and-so within ten metres of what's-her-name, it may well kill him before he ever got a chance to make the fucking declaration in the first place.   
  
'Chad?' Mike was saying, somewhere on the edge of John's hearing. 'Oh! The Republic. Yes, yes by all means. The more the merrier. Yes, of course, Ambassador Holmes is exceedingly grateful for the…' Mike's voice trailed off very slightly as he flipped through the catalogue 'The decryption software. It was invaluable.'   
  
'How did he manage all of this?' John demanded at the table once Mike had set the phone back in its cradle. 'The Prime Minsiter doesn't have this many fucking connections!'   
  
Mike sighed. 'We are talking about the man who had a hand in creating both Sherlock and Mycroft, John. Are you actually surprised?'   
  
John made a sound, possibly it meant something.   
  
'Anyway, it's all to the good, right? You said you needed the whole world, or as much of it as possible. And, of course, that's very important to saving Sherlock because otherwise…'   
  
John rolled his head to the side to look at his friend. 'No, Mike. I told you.'   
  
'Oh, come on!' Mike protested. 'John, I've known you your whole life, longer than the Holmeses even. Tell me what this is about!'   
  
John sighed. 'I'd like to, Mike. I promise you, I'd love to tell you everything. But I can't. I can't risk it.'   
  
'Why?' Asked Mike, coming to sit beside him. 'Because it'd put Sherlock in danger or something?'   
  
John shook his head. 'No. Because if I did you'd probably have me carted off to some madhouse and I'd never see Sherlock again.'   
  
'John…'   
  
'Mike, please. If I tell you you'll try to convince me it wasn't real. And it  _has_  to have been real! I found him! I held him! I could feel his skin, I could taste him! But it was so…' He shook his head again. 'I still expect to wake up, Mike. And I can't. Please.'   
  
Mike sighed. 'Promise me it'll make sense in the end, yeah?'   
  
John let out a puff of air. 'I can't do that. But when it's over I'll tell you everything.'   
  
Mike shrugged and put a hand on John's scarily tense shoulder. 'Fair enough, mate.'   
  
~~~   
  
John wasn't waiting for him. That would be silly. But that didn't stop him from being right there, laid out on Sherlock's bed, when Greg came to a rest at the kid's bedroom window.   
  
John was oblivious, his attention focussed on a comic book in his hands. Greg rapped his beak against the window pane a few times until John took notice. At the sight of Greg, feathers and all, John grinned and closed the book, slipping it into a protective plastic case before he hopped off of the bed and hurried to the window.   
  
John all but threw the window open and extended his hand, all of his fingers pressed together to hold Greg's weight as he stepped onto them.   
  
'Don't change yet.' John said, setting him down on the bed while he closed the window again. 'I hoped you'd come back.'   
  
Greg tilted his head to the side and gave it a couple of bobs. John smiled. It was a genuine smile, one of the good ones, but his eyes were incredibly tired.   
  
'I have something for you.' John said, and he held out an arm. Greg hopped on with a few flaps of his wings, and John hurried them out into the hallway, checking automatically for anyone wandering about after dark. He ducked them into a room Greg didn't recognise, probably a guest bedroom. There was a white plastic machine set up on the desk in the corner and a small earthen bowl on one of the two bedside tables. John moved over to the machine and switched it on. Soft clouds of white vapor began to puff into the room, and the machine made a soft, whispering hiss.   
  
'Okay, I need the casing.' John said, setting Greg onto the bed again. He gently lifted the braided reeds from around Greg's neck and pulled out one of his knives to prize the wax from the opening.   
  
*What is all this?* Greg asked, not expecting an answer.   
  
John  poured the water from the casing into the earthen bowl and stepped back. 'Okay. Go.'   
  
Greg took a deep breath and focussed on his real body. He felt his feathers prickle and ruffle on his skin, heard the soft sussurus of his wings sliding against his body, then the world curled up and stretched back out and he was human again, crouched on the mattress and gasping wet air into his expanded lungs.   
  
'That…is so bizarre.' John said.   
  
'You get used to it.' Greg replied. He nodded to the machine. 'What is that thing?'   
  
John glanced at the white thing in the corner. 'Humidifier. I thought it might keep the water from evaporating as quickly.'   
  
Greg blinked, and something went tight and sharp between his lungs. 'Oh.'   
  
John shrugged. 'Yeah. Well, you're as close as I--' He broke off and cleared his throat. 'There's a lot to talk about.'   
  
'Mm.' Greg tried to pay attention, but his fingers kept flexing over the soft, downy fabric of the duvet. His eyes trailed longingly to the inviting rise of the pillows behind him.   
  
'You can have a lie down, if you like.' John said. 'That's why I brought you in here. Silly probably, but, you know. Sherlock's bed…'   
  
Gred glanced up at John's face and nodded. Say no more and all. Gingerly, he adjusted his body atop the duvet, nearly sobbing as his back came into contact with the mattress. He actually did whimper when he got to the pillow. 'Oh God.'   
  
John shifted and looked away, licking his lips nervously.   
  
Greg adjusted himself, turned on his side and curled up into a semi-foetal position, facing Sherlock's boy. He slid his hands under the pillow and it was nearly enough to make him dizzy. The world had gone all soft and yielding and he ached from it.   
  
'So.' He said, once he could speak again. 'This is the real you, then? I mean, the one Sherlock's always banging on about. All gentle and kind.'   
  
John laughed, sort of. It was short and sharp and painful. 'Something like, I guess. But that was never me. And if you'd asked him three years ago he'd never have called me any of those things.'   
  
Greg shifted again, onto his back with his hands sprawled above his head, and grinned. Every position was comfortable. It was heaven.   
  
'He makes you out to be some kind of saint. Hear him go on and you'd think you could heal the sick!'   
  
John snorted. 'Well I am planning to study medicine. The army was to sort of…pay my way. And do my bit. I mean, my dad was,' he shook his head. 'Never mind.'   
  
Greg tilted his head. 'My dad robbed newsagents.' He said. 'I became a cop.' He shrugged.   
  
John smiled. It seemed like it hurt him less each time he did it. He paused for a moment, then looked at Greg with eyes so yearning it hurt to see them. 'How is he?'   
  
Greg sobered and slid up a bit so his back was propped against the pillows. 'He's fine.' He said. 'Really. Molly did something while I was here and it's got Jim running scared. He wasn't even there these last two mornings.'   
  
John sighed and let his body relax, though it was still a bit soldier-stiff.   
  
'He's hurting, though.' Greg said, keeping his voice low. 'I think it was easier before you showed up. He was used to it. The wanting. Now he's had a taste of what he's been missing and it's sort of…I don't know. Left him empty.'   
  
John gave another wet, sharp laugh and nodded his head. 'Yeah, I know how he feels. It's like I've been hollowed out. I keep getting this urge to scream until my voice goes.'   
  
Greg fidgeted a bit, uncomfortable despite the luxury cradling his body. 'So…how's the party coming?'   
  
John groaned and slumped against the wall, sliding down into an exhausted crouch. 'Oh God. If I never hear another phone ringing it'll be too soon. I had no idea foreign dignitaries were such a load of selfish, spoiled, irritating little pricks. I can't see how Mr Holmes does it. And poor Mycroft. No wonder he's always so unhealthy.'   
  
'Eh?'   
  
John shook his head. 'Nothing. Just…I'll be so glad when this is over.'   
  
'For more reasons than one, yeah?' Greg suggested with a waggle of his eyebrows.   
  
John grinned and flipped him the V. 'Wanker.'   
  
'Yep.' Greg propped himself up on one elbow and picked at non-existant loose threads in the duvet. 'Oh, the kid wants to know what he's gonna wear. I mean, you saw him.'   
  
'Yeah.' John breathed, his eyes bright. 'I did.'   
  
'Oi!' Greg snapped his fingers repeatedly. 'Focus, lover boy!'   
  
John blinked. 'Yeah. Right, um. Christ, I don't know. Mycroft'll pick something out and send it along.'   
  
'Right.' Greg worried at his lower lip. 'I'm to tell you that if Mycroft has so much as a passing involvement in picking his clothes, Sherlock will show up at the party naked. Which you might enjoy, but I doubt everyone else will.' He smirked. 'Apparently Mycroft has been dressing like he's fifty since he was fourteen. But I've seen the bloke and I have to disagree. Not many can pull off a waistcoat at midday.'   
  
'Says the man in the leathers.' John smirked. Then he winced. 'Right. Okay. He does know I'm shit at this, right?'   
  
Greg shrugged. 'He says Harry knows what she's doing.'   
  
'Fine.'      
  
Greg picked at more invisible threads. 'I'm to tell you he loves you.'   
  
John let out a shaky breath. He nodded.   
  
'And he's thinking of you. All the time.' Greg didn't look up, just kept plucking at threads that weren't there.   
  
'Me too.' John's voice was strained, and Greg didn't want to see his face just then.   
  
'I'm not supposed to tell you how scared he is. How many ways this can go pear-shaped. But I don't think I really need to, anyway.'   
  
'No.'   
  
Greg pursed his lips and risked a glance up at the soldier. John met his eye and Greg steeled himself. He flicked his gaze to the bowl of water near his head. 'How much time do you think?'   
  
John shook his head. 'Don't know. Not long.'   
  
Greg sighed and flopped back onto the bed, relishing the feel of soft and warm against his skin.   
  
'I…there's something I need you to do for me.' Said John, hesitantly.   
  
Greg looked up. 'Eh?'   
  
'If you're willing. I think it would help us.'   
  
Greg frowned, and considered it for a moment, letting his head fall back into the welcoming embrace of the pillow.   
  
'Yeah, mate.' He said with a nod. 'Whatever you want.'   
  
~~~   
  
'Just in here.' John nodded at the door.   
  
'John?' Mycroft was confused, though if John hadn't bloody well grown up with the man he never would have spotted it. 'What have you done?'   
  
John shook his head. 'Just go in.'   
  
Mycroft furrowed his brow and frowned a bit, but he obligingly put his hand on the doorknob and opened the door.   
  
Lestrade sat inside, legs hanging off one side of the bed and hands folded formally in his lap. Mycroft stilled and gaped. 'John.' He breathed. 'What is…'   
  
'Hello.' Lestrade said with a little wave of his hand. 'I'm, uh. You've got questions and, I, uh…'   
  
'Police Constable Gregory Lestrade. Reported missing March of the year before last. You'd applied for entry into the firearms unit. You were declined.'   
  
Lestrade's face paled, but he smiled and ducked his head. 'Yeah. Yeah, the kid was right about you.'   
  
John watched Mycroft take in Greg's appearance, probably noting and analysing a hundred clues John had never spotted. He could see Mycroft's eyes flitting about, taking in everything.   
  
'Mye?'   
  
'He makes no sense, John.' Mycroft breathed. 'He's impossible.'   
  
'I prefer to think I'm just incredibly unlikely.' Lestrade replied with a smirk. He leaned back on the mattress, bracing his weight with his hands, his elbows locked.   
  
Mycroft shook his head. 'No, no you're pysically impossible. You haven't changed your clothes in…months, it would appear, going by the colouration of your skin. And yet they show no wear, they aren't laundered but they certainly aren't filthy to the degree they should be. Your face shows no sign of nicks, no cuts, no scores, no irritation to signify shaving in at least several days, and yet you have little more than stubble. I would hazard to guess your hair hasn't been cut, and yet it remains short. You seem to be a man suspended in time.'   
  
Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. 'Yeah, that sounds about right.'   
  
'John, I know you've been reticent to explain to me the situation surrounding Sherlock's imprisonment. You feared I would not believe you.' Mycroft nodded to Lestrade, his face just slightly paler than usual. 'I…I think you can safely inform me now.'   
  
John and Lestrade exchanged a glance, and John sighed. 'Have a seat, Mycroft.'   
  
They went over it together, John taking the lead and Lestrade filling in the gaps. Mycroft sat through it, impassive and utterly still, absorbing it without reaction. He was biding his time, waiting for all the facts.   
  
'Presumably Mr Moriarty got the idea from the necklace you gave to my brother, right John?'   
  
John hissed a breath through his teeth and nodded, eyes downcast.   
  
Mycroft shifted in his chair, a calculated move which allowed him the slightest of careless sprawls. 'Curious. By his own admission he loathes the idea of you together, and yet he forced Sherlock to embody what is arguably the primary symbol of your relationship.'   
  
John furrowed his brow and glanced at Lestrade, who shrugged.   
  
'I always figured it was some kind of taunt.' Lestrade said. 'You know, make him live with what he can't have.'   
  
Mycroft shook his head. 'No, no it isn't that. Moriarty knows my brother, as intimately as one can without John's advantages. He knows Sherlock would never forget what was taken from him. He did it for himself. You say he comes every morning to watch my brother change, but never at night. Why? If his obsession is with Sherlock surely he'd wish to monopolise his time as a human, when they can talk, but instead he comes to him at the last minute, watches him become powerless, voiceless. To what end?' Mycroft's eyes widened, a pleased little glint collecting around the pupils.   
  
'He's scared, is our young James. Scared of many things. Given enough time, enough words, Sherlock could prove the more intelligent of the two. Could seize that power back. Scared, too, of forgetting his hate, so he forces himself to look at Sherlock and see his love for John written, almost literally, over every inch of his body. Terrified of seeing Sherlock strong, defiant, as we all know him to be. And so Moriarty limits his contact with Sherlock when he has all of his faculties, purposely times his visits for the moment when Sherlock is the most frightened, the most vulnerable. When he is most completely under Moriarty's control.'   
  
Mycroft sat back and steepled his fingers loosely before his chest, a small, satisfied smile playing at his lips. 'Someone has been very naughty, I think. Left the nest before he was able to fly.' He turned his eyes to Lestrade, who flinched. 'You say Moriarty killed his mentor?'   
  
Lestrade nodded. 'Yeah, around the time he grabbed me.'   
  
'Did it never occur to you to wonder why and how?' Mycroft asked.   
  
John and Lestrade looked at him, faces identically blank. Mycroft sighed. 'Honestly, John, there are times I fear my brother's fixation on you has more to do with your shoulders than with the head which rests on them.'   
  
John ducked his head and blushed.   
  
'The mentor took Miss Hooper, after he'd taken Jim. Why did he do that? Why imprison her in the lake? Why does no one ask the important questions?' His tone was verging on exasperated. 'Think! Both of you! James Moriarty has a weakness. A fatal one. His teacher knew of it and so he died, but how could Moriarty have killed a man with years, decades perhaps, of experience beyond his own? He is a genius, yes, but genius is useless without the tools with which to wield it. James Moriarty is hiding something and Molly Hooper is the key to finding out what.'


	15. Chapter Fifteen

John's dog tags glinted in the waxing moonlight, swaying gently as they hung from Sherlock's hand. He hadn't yet dared to put them around his neck, but instead kept them secreted away in a hidden hole in his shelter.  Holding them, watching their drunken dance through the night air, he could almost fancy he felt the heat of John's heart still radiating from the metal.   
  
His throat aching, he held one gently between his fingers and stroked the etched letters of John's name. The tags were dirty, caked with mud and dirt and oil, and Sherlock could read a hundred secrets in them, whether he wanted to or not. And he didn't. He didn't want to think of a John who hid things from him, who kept him at arm's length, who felt ashamed.   
  
He closed his eyes, clutched the discs against his breast, and remembered.   
  
  
_John's hand, stroking reverently across his chest, as though Sherlock were some priceless, unearthed masterpiece rather than flesh and blood. John's fingers, alternately dancing and stumbling over the buttons of his shirt, baring skin to the cool air._   
  
_John pausing, stilling, resting a hand over Sherlock's breastbone, where the necklace had always rested. Should have rested now._   
  
_'Do I want to know?'_   
  
_Sherlock wrapped his own hand around John's, met his eye. 'You already know.'_   
  
_'When did he take it?'_   
  
_'When I gave it to him.'_   
  
_John flinched, closed his eyes, turned his head. 'Lie to me. For God's sake.'_   
  
_Sherlock shook his head. 'It was all I had to give.'_   
  
_'For?'_   
  
_'I couldn't let them kill him.'_   
  
_John tensed. It was as though Sherlock could see the jealousy, the anger, written in the air. Then the shame, hot and sharp, and John sagged._   
  
_Sherlock bit his lip and ran a hand down John's chest, resting his fingers lightly over the skin above his waistband. 'Please, John. This is all we get. Please, don't let it pass by.'_   
  
_John shuddered, arched his neck. Then he took a deep breath and slipped his hand into a pocket. When he pulled it out, there was a dull chain hanging from his fingers. He adjusted his grip, and the round tags tumbled out of his hand to hang and sway above Sherlock's chest. John gently lowered them over Sherlock's heart, a bit higher than the swan would have sat on his chest, and let the chain spool slowly onto Sherlock's skin. He then took Sherlock's hand and rested the palm against the tags, pressing it there with his own as he dipped down to place a kiss on Sherlock's lips._   
  
_'Hold them. Please?'_   
  
_Sherlock let out a shaking breath, felt his own heart pounding under his fingers, and nodded._   
  
_'Don't let go.'_   
  
_Sherlock shook his head, wrapped his fingers around the discs, and reached his free hand up to pull John to him at last._   
  
  
Sherlock gathered up the tags into his hand and pressed them against his chest.  They were so different, so utterly unlike the swan. John had poured his kindness, his optimism, his generosity and his love into the swan. It had been all the best parts of him, condensed and solidified into something Sherlock could hold in the palm of his hand.   
  
But the tags. One glance and Sherlock could see the anger, the hate, the blood and sweat that John had sacrificed since he first wore them. He could smell faint traces of gunpowder, see a plethora of different mud and soil types. There was blood on the metal, worked into the grooves where the letters had been etched. They hadn't been cleaned, hadn't been cared for. They were all of John's rough edges, his dark secrets, all the parts of himself he wanted to conceal, to bury, to wish away.   
  
These tags were all the things John had never told him.   
  
He loved them desperately.   
  
He looked up at Molly, far in the distance, dancing with the water. He watched shapes and forms rise into the air and sweep around her before crashing back into the lake. He wondered if she liked him watching, if she even cared or noticed. He wondered what it was like, those four years before Greg was imprisoned with her, what it was like to be completely alone.   
  
Something of what he was thinking must have bled into her, or else she was just that observant, because Sherlock felt an echo of his own gaping emptiness, the hard-edged hole in his heart that seemed to grow with every second John was away from him. He felt it reflected and intensified to the point where it was all he could do just to breathe.   
  
*Just like that.* Molly's voice whispered in his mind. *Always.*   
  
He nodded, let the tags tumble from his hand to hang by their chain, then slipped it over his head and around his neck.   
  
_I won't leave without you_ . He didn't say. Couldn't say. Could barely think.   
  
*Yes.* Molly's voice was faint and small. *You will.*   
  
~~~   
  
Greg hadn't flown this hard since he got wings. Back and forth to and from Sussex, it was nearly enough to make his feathers fall out. He was so bloody tired, so unbearably sore, and he'd probably end up doing it all over again before the Big Night.   
  
It was, he reflected, bloody negligent for all those star-cross'd lovers stories to gloss over all the hard work done by the supporting cast, as it were. Nobody ever gave a thought to the poor bloke running messages and tokens between the two mooning sods. It wasn't an easy job, and it's not like you get paid for it. You just get knots all through your back and half the time you don't even get to whinge about it to your mates because the whole sodding ordeal is a big secret.   
  
And, of course, no sooner had he touched down and gone bipedal than Sherlock was on him with a demanding, 'Well?'   
  
'Yeah, give us a second, will you? I'm done in!'   
  
Sherlock bit his lip, and behind him Molly bounced on the balls of her feet and clutched at the fabric of her skirt. 'Come on! Tell us, tell us, tell us!' She chirped.   
  
Greg rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, nice to see you, too, gorgeous.' He slipped out of his leather jacket with a wince and a hiss, then tried to pull off his shirt and whimpered, letting his arms fall back down in defeat.   
  
Sherlock scoffed. 'Here.' He snapped, and grabbed hold of the shirt, pulling it up and off of him with deceptively gentle hands. 'Now talk!'   
  
Greg let Sherlock pull the fabric away and sighed. 'It's all set. Well, nearly. Your boyfriend is about ready to start punching people. The car will be waiting on the other side at nine, so we need to be out of the wood by then. Harry will be in charge of your clothes, so don't worry. They're holding it at the Queen's House, near the Royal Observatory. Apparently Mycroft picked it out even before he knew about the whole moon thing.'   
  
Sherlock blinked and frowned. 'Mycroft knows?'   
  
Greg rotated his shoulders and rocked his head. 'Yeah. Everything. You, me, Molls. The lot. He gave me this.' He reached into a pocket and pulled out an ornate glass phial on a leather cord. 'Don't know if it'll work, but at least it's classier than hanging Seb's rubbish around my neck. And I can get it open with my beak if I have to. We tested it.'   
  
Sherlock took the phial in hand and examined it. 'I see. The hypothesis being, of course, that since your boundary is a visual one, a transparent vessel might allow you to transform freely without risk of the liquid evaporating.'   
  
'That's about the size of it.' Greg confirmed.   
  
'Could that work?' Molly asked.   
  
'Let's find out.' Sherlock flipped the stopper back on its hinge and handed it to Molly.   
  
She frowned in concentration and several strands of her hair turned liquid and flowed through the air into the glass, filling it up before she carefully replaced the stopper, sealing her hair inside.   
  
'I'm going to go bald before this is all over.' She quipped, with a slight smile.   
  
'You won't have the chance.' Sherlock told her. 'I'll see to it.'   
  
Molly smiled, tight and brittle. 'So you keep saying.'   
  
Sherlock glowered and clenched his fists. 'Why do you two have such trouble believing me? I told you I'd free you!'   
  
'Relax, kid.' Greg held up a placating hand. 'You'll ruin your spine, you keep carrying the world on your shoulders. Molls and I have been doing this whole captive thing for a long time. We're good at it. Probably shite at anything else at this point. Don't worry about us, just focus on getting yourself out.'   
  
Sherlock fixed him with an accusing glare. 'Whatever happened to "together or not at all" then?' He demanded.   
  
Greg and Molly exchanged an indulging look. 'Sherlock,' Molly said. 'That's a vow for people who never had a hope of getting out in the first place.'   
  
Greg shrugged. 'All that's different now. And, yeah, maybe you can break us out somewhere down the line, but in the meantime you've got a real shot. You can't risk losing it for our sakes. We won't let you. Think about us  _after_ you can get a sunburn again, deal?'   
  
Sherlock drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'Very well.' He said. He held out a hand to Molly and she placed the phial in his palm. He held it up to the moonlight and squinted. 'There's oil in here.' He said with a smirk. 'He always was a master of contingencies.'   
  
Greg shifted his weight. 'Think it'll work?'   
  
Sherlock handed him the glass. 'One way to find out.'   
  
'Good luck.' Said Molly.   
  
They walked together to the edge of Greg's boundary, the tiny sliver of lake water glittering through the trees behind them, and Greg slipped the leather cord over his head. With a sidelong glance at Sherlock, he took a step forward.   
  
He felt a bit dizzy, a little winded, but apart from that nothing happened. He looked down at the water sloshing gently behind the glass and took another step. It was only a little wobbly.   
  
His head hurt. It was a bit like crossing his eyes and seeing two images where there should be one. Two different yet eerily similar perceptions danced and vied for his attention. He winced and shut his eyes, his hand flying to his head.   
  
'Greg?' Sherlock sounded worried, but Greg waved him off and forced himself to move again. The dizzy headache intensified and he yelped, but the pain of it sapped the strength from his legs and he stumbled further past his boundary line and the pain vanished.   
  
He let out a sigh and let himself sink to the soft, damp leaves and mosses below him, panting and shaking more than perhaps he'd like to admit. Not that Sherlock would miss it.   
  
Sure enough the kid was kneeling beside him, one hand hovering uncertainly over Greg's shoulder.   
  
'I'm fine.'   
  
'You don't look fine.'   
  
'I wasn't, a second ago. It's okay now. I think it got confused for a bit, but it's alright here.'   
  
'Greg…' Sherlock ventured. 'You know what this means.'   
  
Greg nodded, reached up a hand to clutch at the glass container. 'I know.'   
  
'You could…I mean, if you wanted to. You don't have to stay anymore.'   
  
Greg looked up at him, saw the careful blankness of his features, and shook his head. 'I never had to stay, Sherlock. I could've flown away at any time. I never had to let Jim put that leash on me, or put up with Seb's moods, I never had to do any of it. Fuck, I never even had to risk my damn neck trying to convince Molly to trust me. I definitely didn't have to fly my feathery arse across southern England for you.  I don't do things because I have to do them, and I don't run away. Clear?'   
  
Sherlock ducked his head and averted his eyes. He didn't answer.   
  
Greg sighed. 'It's borrowed freedom, anyway. Anything happens to this thing and that's it. I'm fucked. I figure it's worth holding out for the real thing.' He gently shoved at Sherlock's shoulder, forcing him to topple over until he caught himself with an out flung arm.   
  
'Right.' Sherlock offered a sickly sort of smile, but it was good enough.   
  
'Now, let's see what we can do about making you look respectable again, eh?' He stood up and offered a hand to Sherlock, who took it and allowed Greg to help him to his feet.   
  
They turned back, and Greg slung a companionable arm around Sherlock's shoulder, and they both pretended it had nothing to do with keeping Greg upright as they crossed the boundary once more.   
  
~~~   
  
'Progress report.' Harry seemed to materialise from thin air to drop a blue folder on Mycroft's desk. Mycroft blinked and resisted the urge to shake his head.   
  
'Thank you.' He said.   
  
'I peeked at it.' Harry went on. 'It says Sherlock is recovering faster than expected, but they want to hold him for observation.'   
  
'That's good news, then.'   
  
'It doesn't say what he's recovering  _from_ . There's nothing at all in there about where he was found.'   
  
'Such information would only be redacted.' Mycroft lied smoothly, and tried to ignore the twist in his abdomen. 'Any document containing sensitive information would be delivered much more securely, I assure you.'   
  
'But I'm--'   
  
'Not cleared for that information.' Mycroft insisted. 'I am sorry, Harry. But that level of involvement would compromise too much of your life. It is regrettable when such measures intrude upon one's personal life, but I cannot rewrite the rules to suit myself, or you. '   
  
'But John, that's perfectly okay.' She sniped.   
  
Mycroft sighed. 'John is a soldier. As far as the government is concerned he is still on active duty. And he led the extraction team that found Sherlock in the first place. So yes, his clearance exceeds yours. Do feel free to enlist any time you feel left out.'   
  
Harry narrowed her eyes. 'You think I can't tell when you're lying. You're wrong.'   
  
Mycroft actually had to concentrate to keep his face from betraying the churning, roiling  _wrongness_  in his belly. 'If that will be all?'   
  
Harry glowered at him, but she didn't respond. She turned on her heel and strode out of the office, shutting the door just slightly harder than necessary behind her.   
  
Mycroft collapsed into his chair. He hated lying to her. When it was all over, he resolved, he'd take her to Vienna, or possibly Sydney. One of the cities whose post cards decorated her bedroom wall. He'd do something, at least.   
  
He stood again and moved to the window where John was pacing in front of the house, speaking into a cordless phone through gritted teeth and attempting to tug at his exceedingly short hair. The party itself was shaping up nicely, every aspect on schedule and under control, or as much as could be expected on such short notice and with such a delicate guest list. But to see John go on about it one would think the whole thing was falling apart around their ears.   
  
Mycroft wasn't a fool. He knew that John's unease and frustration had more to do with Sherlock than any politics or logistics. He could see the tension and strain coiled under John's skin with each jerky movement. John was like an addict cut off from his substance, and each day the longing, the physical  _need_  grew visibly worse.   
  
And while Mycroft preferred not to dwell on precisely  _which_  physical needs John was feeling, he could sympathise with the sentiment. Sherlock's absence clawed at him, raked against the interior of his cranium and slashed at the space under his sternum. And now, to be so very close…   
  
He reluctantly turned his attention to the pile of security alerts on his desk. Such a lot of important people inspired quite a lot of opportunistic predators, and Mycroft was determined to weed out each and every one of them.   
  
He'd failed to protect his younger brother once. He would not be so careless again.   
  
~~~   
  
Sherlock, as a rule, was not prone to excessive preening. After all, there were only so many ways to arrange one's feathers so they're all pointing more or less in the same direction. But today he couldn't help fussing with them, ruffling then smoothing them over and over in restless anticipation because  _tonight was the night_ .   
  
He shivered, and somewhere deep inside of him callused fingers were stroking gently up the inside of his thigh, soft lips were ghosting warm air over the shell of his ear, and in his head there was a ceaseless litany of  _tonight, tonight, tonight._   
  
*Would you stop that? You look beautiful.*   
  
Swans cannot roll their eyes. This, Sherlock thought, was one of life's greatest injustices. *I am not, contrary to what you may imagine, a Byronic heroine, Molly.* He sneered.   
  
Molly sighed, and the sensation was like the brush of water lily petals in his mind. *Handsome, then. Though I think "beautiful" is more apt.*   
  
Sherlock scoffed. Then paused. Well, no sense avoiding it. 'Was my hair alright? Before I changed?'   
  
Molly giggled. It was like tiny bubbles bursting against his skin. *You looked lovely. You'll look amazing in your suit, I'm sure.*   
  
Sherlock smiled, internally at any rate. *Do you think we'll--* something tugged in his chest and his words died in his head. He gasped, and the pulling, shifting sensation intensified.   
  
*Sherlock?* Molly fountained out of the water and formed her body to kneel by him in concern.   
  
*Mol--* He broke off with a cry as something inside of him seemed to melt and flow and there was no pain but it was unlike anything he'd felt before. His heart pounded in his chest once, twice, three times, and he was flat on his back, blinking into the sunlight, and utterly human.   
  
'Sherlock!' Molly gasped.   
  
Sherlock blinked and groaned. The sun had already begun to set, and the light was far dimmer than it had been, but it was still far too bright for his human eyes to handle and he clenched them shut.   
  
'Sherlock, what…?'   
  
Before Sherlock could answer, another voice cut in, and they both froze.   
  
'Do you like it?' Jim asked, sauntering into the clearing. 'I've been practicing. All for you, darling.'   
  
Sherlock clambered to his feet dripping and confused but still standing.   
  
'Wondered when you'd turn up again.' Sherlock said. 'I can't say I missed you overmuch.'   
  
Jim smirked and slipped his hands into his pockets. 'Well, I have been busy. You'd be amazed what proper motivation will do to improve a guy's study habits. And, you know, I think I have found  _the_  perfect way to kill you.'   
  
'Took you that long, did it?' Sherlock challenged.   
  
'Sherlock.' Molly warned.   
  
'Stay out of this, little girl.' Moriarty drawled. 'Sherlock and I have business to take care of.'   
  
'Piss off, Jim.' Molly snapped. 'You can't bully me anymore.'   
  
Jim arched an eyebrow, feigning surprise. 'Oh, can't I?' He raised a hand and Sherlock felt something like a very strong, very localised wind push against his back. He tumbled forward, clear of the lake, and landed hard on his back on the stony shore.   
  
His mind instantly lit up with a thousand warning flashes of  _Not safe. Vulnerable. Exposed._  And he tried to scramble back to the water only to be jerked to a halt by something clamped around his ankle. He looked down, and one gnarled tree root had wrapped itself tightly around his trouser leg and was holding him in an unyielding grip mere inches from the safety of Molly's domain.   
  
'Your boyfriend has been busy.' Jim said. 'Very, very busy. He and your brother have been raising all sorts of red flags. Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?'   
  
Sherlock forced himself onto his hands and knees. His head was pounding and he still felt unsteady from the unexpected transformation. He managed to get to his feet, but he couldn't manage anything like a balanced stance with the root clutching at his leg.   
  
'He'll come for me.' He told Jim. 'He won't stop. He'll try again and again until we've beaten you.'   
  
'I'm sure he would.' Jim smirked. 'But I don't intend to give him that chance.' He raised his hand again, and several of the trees around them shook and convulsed, then they began to  _melt_  into the earth, great sheets of bark sloughing to the ground and then sinking into the soil. Sherlock whipped his head around, trying to follow their progress, but he already knew where it was all heading.   
  
'No.' He breathed.   
  
Jim grinned. 'Yes.'   
  
Molly surged forward, but before she could raise so much as a rivulet a wooden spike shot out of the ground. The tip was sharpened to a wicked point, and it grew in the blink of an eye until it rested just against Sherlock's throat. He swallowed, and felt the tip sink into skin. He knew it had drawn blood.   
  
Molly paled and dropped her hand.   
  
'I have your attention? Good.' Jim began to walk a loose circle around Sherlock just as the first shoots began to emerge from the ground, surrounding Sherlock at six inch intervals and rising into the air at a slight angle, all reaching toward the same apex some three feet over Sherlock's head.   
  
'It's not easy, changing you at will. That's what the day and night cycle is for. But I thought it'd be worth it to see your face when you realise just how badly you've lost.'   
  
The bars, for they were bars, for a prison cell or a cage, had risen to waist-height now, but Jim just kept talking as though nothing were happening at all.   
  
'You could have had everything, Sherlock. You and I, we could have taken this world apart. We would have been limitless. But you just couldn't see it, could you? You'd rather let some gun-toting ape run your life.' He shrugged. 'Your wish, Sherlock. But I did warn you. You won't live to see tomorrow morning.'   
  
Sherlock glanced down at the sharpened stake, at the rising bars now as high as his shoulders.   
  
'And this is your perfect death? You're going to impale me?'   
  
Jim snorted, then laughed, wiping imaginary tears from his eye. 'Oh no, Sherlock, not at all.' He snapped his fingers and the pointed stake receded into the ground. The bars joined at their apex, sealing Sherlock in a cage with no doors or locks.   
  
'I'm not going to kill you tonight, Sherlock.' Jim said. He reached a hand through the bars to caress Sherlock's cheek. 'I don't have to.'   
  
He pulled his hand back, pressed a kiss to the first two fingers, then pressed them against Sherlock's lips.   
  
'Not when John is going to do it for me.'   
  
He smirked, playing up sadness with his eyebrows and his lips, and let his hand fall. Then he turned on his heel and strode toward the house.   
  
Sherlock looked after him, stunned and motionless. He barely noticed when his human shape fell from him like the skin of a snake, and he was a swan once more.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

'Mike?' John's head was spinning. Everywhere he looked there were people surging past, carrying trays or packages or boxes or boxy mobile phones. He searched in desperation for a familiar face amongst the milling crowd, and finally lighted on his sister arranging crystal centrepieces.   
  
'Harry!' He cried, snatching at her wrist like a lifeline in a storm-tossed ocean.   
  
'There you are!' She cried right back. 'My God, John, everything is falling apart! The florist sent yellow lilies, _yellow_ , and we're trying to get some white ones in but at this point I'm willing to just soak the damn things in bleach and hope for the best. There's pepper in the canapés but the representative from Burundi is allergic and why the buggering  _fuck_  am I the one handling all this?!'   
  
John pressed a kiss to her cheek, carefully avoiding any contact with any part of her lips where once he'd have caught the corner as a matter of habit, and said, 'Because you're my sister and I love you, and because Sherlock is like family, and because I promise to teach you to fire a gun for your twenty-first birthday.'   
  
'That's two years away!' She protested.   
  
'That's how long I'll need to be in therapy before I get up the nerve to do it.'   
  
'Wanker!' She slapped him on the arm.   
  
He rubbed it ostentatiously and stuck out his tongue at her. 'Seen Mike? He was supposed to check in before he left.'   
  
'He couldn't find you.' Harry told him. 'He confirmed the directions with Mycroft and left about half an hour ago.'   
  
John blanched. He'd hoped…well, he wasn't sure what he'd hoped, but having Mike by his side for another few minutes would have been a balm to his frazzled nerves.   
  
'I need air.' He said. Harry rolled her eyes and jerked her thumb toward the staff entrance.   
  
For such a huge place, The Queen's House could feel incredibly claustrophobic with enough people all being busy at the same time. John was glad to be free of the massive main room. The intermittent black and white checked floor was starting to make him dizzy, and the massive central circle of black and white diamonds was making his vision swim.  Even so, he couldn't help but imagine Sherlock in the sleek black suit Harry had chosen, and how he'd look as John swept him across those diamond shapes, all eyes on them, how it would feel to kiss him with so many people watching…   
  
'It's worth it.' He said to himself, watching the sky and willing the sun to set faster.   
  
~~~   
  
Greg set his jaw and slammed his shoulder against the wooden bars. They didn't even shake. He stumbled away and clutched at his arm, cursing under his breath.   
  
*Greg. Stop.* Sherlock said quietly. He felt heavy, adrift. He barely had the will to raise his head and watch Greg's futile attempts to break him free of the cage.   
  
'No.' Greg snarled. 'Not on your life. I am getting you out of this.'   
  
*Greg, you'll only hurt yourself.* He was weary, and sending the words was far more effort than it seemed worth. *It was bad enough watching Molly nearly ruin herself, I don't want to see it happen to you, too.*   
  
Greg grunted and threw himself again. The definition of insanity flickered across Sherlock's mind, but he didn't mention it.   
  
'Molly is still recovering from whatever she did to Jim.' Greg pointed out. 'And there's only so much you can do with water.'   
  
*And there's only so much human bone will withstand! Greg, just stop.*   
  
Greg's next attempt to crush his skeleton was aborted, however. A sudden crashing from the forest made them both freeze, and Greg turned his body to shield as much of Sherlock and the cage as he could cover.   
  
Jim appeared first, smirking and languid, and Seb trailed a short way behind, dragging what looked to be--   
  
No. No.   
  
*No!*   
  
Greg whipped round to look at Sherlock for an instant before turning back to their captors, who were in the midst of dragging a body into the clearing. A young, brown haired, slightly plump body with a kind, guileless face Sherlock knew far, far too well.   
  
*Mike.* He whispered inside of Greg's head. *John sent Mike.*   
  
'Who?' Greg said it very quietly, and he barely moved his lips. Indeed, Sherlock felt the question more than he heard it.   
  
*John's best friend. Since before he met me. Of course! Stupid! He wouldn't trust anyone else.*   
  
'What's your game, Jim?' Greg demanded.  Behind them, Molly began to form atop the water, looking weary and pale. 'What's with the civilian?'   
  
Jim ignored him, just watched intently as Seb hefted Mike's short but solid body against the nearest sturdy tree and trussed him to the trunk with quick, efficient rope work. Greg started forward, ready to do something stupid, and Seb stepped away just enough to draw a handgun and point it directly at Mike's lolling head.   
  
'There.' Said Jim. 'Everyone had a good look? Lovely. I trust I have your attention. Now,' He clapped his hands together. 'We can begin.'   
  
He eyed Molly, who was sagging and wavering, her body glittery and blurred around the edges. 'I see our little water nymph has worn herself out again. And I'm willing to bet if I had Lestrade here stripped we'd find all sorts of interesting bruises. I hope you've come to realise by now that there's no way you're getting out of there, Sherlock.'   
  
*Greg?*   
  
Greg nodded. 'You've got our attention. Impress us.'   
  
Jim only smiled. 'Seb? Come here.'   
  
Seb lowered the gun to his side but he didn't move his finger from the trigger. He strode up to Jim and stood beside him, a cocky grin splitting the lower half of his face.   
  
'You know how fast he is, bird boy.' Jim said with an eye to Greg. 'Don't do anything stupid.'   
  
Greg frowned. 'Aw, you've exhausted my whole repertoire.' He griped.   
  
Jim smiled tightly, his lips pressed into a thin line. 'I won't miss you.' He said, so matter-of-factly that Greg shrunk back a bit until his back was to the bars.   
  
Jim nodded to Mike. 'This man was driving very close to our little hideaway, in a very sharp, very expensive car. And he had a suit with him. A suit far too long and far to slim to fit him. I can't help but wonder why.' He smirked. 'But then I remember, I'm a genius. Really? You expected this to work?' He shook his head.   
  
Sherlock lowered his head. He didn't want to face his own foolishness, and meeting Jim's eye required far too much effort.   
  
'I know about the party, about your father's little friends. I really wish you'd give me more credit, Sherlock.' He clapped his hands once. 'Right, if we leave now we should arrive fashionably late. Late enough to avoid certain questions, anyway.'   
  
He shifted his weight a bit and held out his hand for Seb, who took it.   
  
'Do you know what I'm going to do now, Sherlock?' Jim asked. 'Do you know how you're going to die?'   
  
Sherlock forced himself to look up. He saw Jim and Seb standing hand-in-hand, saw Greg and Molly still as statues with matching expressions of disgust and rage, and he nodded, too weary for anything else.   
  
Jim grinned. 'Watch.'   
  
He placed a hand over Sebastian's breastbone, and Seb's shape began to pulsate and shimmer. A heartbeat, two, and Seb had become an exact duplicate of Sherlock, down to the barely-restrained curls and chapped lips. There were no discrepancies, nothing to indicate he was anything but the real Sherlock Holmes.   
  
And he was dressed in a sharp black suit with a crisp white shirt and silver buttons. It was sleek and fitted beautifully, and Sherlock recognised Harry's aesthetic sense in every stitch and fold. The suit he was meant to wear for his debut in the real world, wasted on a mere duplicate.   
  
'Not bad work, though I say it myself.' Said Jim. 'Convincing, too. Should be enough to dazzle our dear Johnny-boy, right?'   
  
Sherlock said nothing, but his mind had woken and it was whirring through the accumulated data faster than ever before. His heart started to beat faster, and for the first time since the sun set he felt awake.   
  
'It'll be enough.' Jim went on with a nod. 'Just. One. Kiss.'   
  
He reached out a hand and wrapped it around Seb's--around  _Sherlock's_  neck and pulled him in close. Their lips met, rampant, hungry, and dirty, and Sherlock found he couldn't look away, much as he might want to.   
  
It was…indescribably bizarre to see  _himself_  snogging Jim so wantonly. Their tongues were tangling and darting, and Sherlock was forced to watch himself panting and gasping into Jim's open mouth, his own hands wandering over Jim's suited body with greedy, grabbing fingers. Seb trailed Sherlock's hands down to Jim's bottom and squeezed, hard, biting Jim's lower lip at the same time.   
  
It was like vertigo, or like hanging upside down and looking in a mirror, or perhaps it was just like a nightmare made flesh. Either way, Sherlock's stomach flipped and twisted inside of his feathery body, and yet he still could not look away.   
  
He also couldn't help but notice how Seb's hand had never wavered in its grip on the gun, nor how Seb's finger never once trailed from the trigger, even as he used that same hand to grope Jim's body. Sherlock wondered why he couldn't find it in himself to hope Seb's finger would slip and he'd accidentally put a bullet in Moriarty's spine.   
  
Lack of plausibility, probably.   
  
Jim ended the kiss with a gentle, insistent push against Moran's sternum and turned back to Sherlock with a grin.   
  
'Well, we best be off. Summer nights are so frightfully short.' He slipped a hand around Seb's ( _Sherlock's_ ) waist and smirked. 'Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.'   
  
Seb brought the barrel of his gun to his forehead in a mocking salute, then turned on his heel and followed Jim up the hill and away from the lake, leaving their four captives behind.   
  
The moment the two of them were out of sight, Greg bolted to the tree where Mike was hanging and began to furiously work the knots.   
  
'Talk to me!' Greg snapped, barely glancing back at Sherlock.   
  
*It isn't over.* Sherlock replied. *There's time. We have a chance. You need to get Mike to the lake.*   
  
Greg grunted, working one of Seb's knots free and tackling another. 'Yeah, I know that. Now tell me why.'   
  
Swans cannot smirk. Sherlock tried anyway. *Rugby. Eight years of it.*   
  
~~~   
  
'Come on.' John whispered, eyes fixed to the waxing moon. ' _Come on_ .'   
  
He regretted now that he'd wished for the day to end quickly. He'd forgotten just how  _short_  the nights were in June. Now the moon was making its determined way across the sky like it was trying to set a bloody record and the main hall was swarming with Very Important People and there was no. Bloody. Sign. Of  _Sherlock_ !   
  
'John?' John whipped round to see Mycroft stepping out onto the, well he supposed you'd call it a porch if the sprawling grandeur of the thing didn't make the word seem wholly insufficient. John sighed and resumed leaning with his elbows on the railing.   
  
'He's still not here.'   
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft shake his head. 'No sign.'   
  
'And nothing of Mike?'   
  
'He hasn't checked in, no.'   
  
'Then why are you out here? I don't sodding care if some diplomat has spilled sauce down his front. Don’t we have people for that shit?'   
  
Mycroft sighed. 'John, I know you're frustrated--'   
  
'Don't!' John turned to face him properly, and for a man who'd known Mycroft for years, the signs were there. A slight tension at the corners of his eyes, a barely-there downturn on either side of his mouth. For Mycroft, this was tantamount to pulling his hair out by the roots and babbling about carafes.   
  
John deflated and went on in a calmer voice, 'Don't lecture me, Mycroft. Not tonight. You know what's at stake. You know we're running out of time. You may be able to batter everything down and put on a smooth face, but I can't. I never could.'   
  
Mycroft examined the nails of his left hand. 'You're better at concealment than you give yourself credit for. But I haven’t come to lecture you. There’s a-- a matter which has been brought to my attention. I need to see to it.’   
  
John gaped at him, then darted his arm out to seize Mycroft by the wrist. ‘Don’t. Don’t you dare leave me now. You’re the only one who knows!’   
  
Mycroft shook his head. ‘I’m afraid there is no alternative. I’m sorry, John. This cannot wait.’   
  
John swallowed past a block in his throat. ‘Mye...please.’   
  
Mycroft’s face turned stern, and he narrowed his eyes, looking down his eyes at John. John knew that look, he’d seen Mycroft use it to cow interns and diplomats alike, but he’d never aimed it at him.   
  
‘Childhood is over, John.’ He said, his voice measured and contained, revealing nothing. ‘We must prioritise the necessary above the desirable. I wish it could be otherwise. I would like nothing more than to greet my brother when he arrives. But I will not have his first step back into our lives be his last. I can trust no one with his security more than myself, and so any threat he may face will be dealt with. Personally.’   
  
John set his jaw and squared his shoulders. ‘That’s what this is? Your atonement? Fuck, Mycroft, you  _know_  what you were up against in that car! What the hell do you think you could have done?’   
  
Mycroft’s gaze didn’t waver, he didn’t so much as blink.   
  
‘More.’ He said.   
  
He turned his back on John, and he walked away.   
  
~~~   
  
Greg's hands were gentle as they lowered Mike's body into the shallows, carefully supporting his head and keeping his face clear of the water.   
  
Sherlock scarcely dared to breathe, watching Molly as she slowly took form on the water. Her face was drawn and weary, her hair limp, and her body seemed less solid further from its core.   
  
*Can you do it?* He asked.   
  
_Hard._  She replied, her lips never moving. Her thoughts were so terribly faint against his mind.  _Weak. Not one of us._   
  
*Will that matter?* He asked.   
  
Greg winced. 'We don't know, kid.' He answered for her. 'We never tried it. She couldn't touch Jim, and she wouldn't touch Seb. We've never had anyone else here who wasn't…like us.'   
  
Sherlock turned his attention to Molly again, watched her place her hands on Mike, one on his forehead, the other over his sternum. She closed her eyes, and her shape wavered even more, so much so that it left a wet spot on Mike’s skin and his shirt.   
  
*Molly...*   
  
She shook her head.  _Let me._   
  
*But--*   
  
She looked up at him, her eyes hard and sharp.  _No. Let me do this. After tonight, you’ll never need me to heal you again. Let me._   
  
Her shoulders sagged, the effort of sending so many words draining her further. Sherlock kept quiet and fixed his eyes on Molly’s hands, to the gleam of moonlight under her shining fingers. He could feel the tension radiating from Greg on the other side of the bars, his anxiety rippling in fitful waves across Sherlock’s mind.   
  
The glow under Molly’s hands grew brighter, and her breathing grew louder and more laboured. A moment later, Mike gasped and heaved, coughing wetly from the back of his throat.   
  
Both Greg and Sherlock heaved sighs of relief, though they watched Molly carefully for signs of liquification. Her shape wavered, and she turned transparent, shaking her head.   
  
_Tired._   
  
Greg extended a hand and rested it on her cheek. It actually went a little bit  _through_  her, but he pulled back enough to remain on the surface.   
  
'Then rest.' He said.   
  
Molly flashed him a look of gratitude, then she quietly, smoothly, slipped back into the lake, retreating to some place in the deep water where her world was calm and peaceful.   
  
*She'll be okay.* Sherlock said, and he refused to let it be a question. *She just needs rest.*   
  
Greg nodded. Mike sputtered, and in the next moment there was much flailing and splashing before he could be calmed enough to stand and speak and listen.   
  
Greg, Sherlock realised, was probably a quite adept police officer. If he handled drunken miscreants and half-crazed junkies with the kind of calm, systematic approach he used on Mike, he must have had a promising career ahead of him. Before.   
  
'What the bloody hell is going on here?!' Mike demanded, swatting Greg's hand from his shoulder.   
  
~~~   
  
Greg did not have the patience for this. His head was aching, his shoulder was on fire, and frankly, he was much more invested in Molly than in some sputtering civilian, but needs must.   
  
‘You--you expect me to believe that, that, that  _bird_  is Sherlock Holmes?’ Mike babbled.   
  
Greg sighed and massaged his forehead. ‘No. No, I don’t. But we don’t have  _time_  to ease you into this shit, okay? All you need to know is if we don’t get that bird out of that cage  _right now_  Sherlock is going to die.’   
  
‘But if the bird is--’   
  
‘Oh for fuck’s--’ Greg started in, but Sherlock’s familiar, rose-thorn sharp thoughts pierced the back of his mind and he felt himself relax. He even smiled a little.   
  
‘He says, he says he still can’t abide the smell of marmite, but if you’re that hard up for a microscope he’s got plenty to spare.’   
  
Mike froze, and his bright, open gaze locked on Sherlock, who returned it without flinching.   
  
‘H-how did you know about that?’ Mike asked without looking Greg’s way.   
  
Greg shrugged. ‘I just repeated what I was told. Will you help?’   
  
Mike shook his head, but it wasn’t a no. ‘Just...ask...ask him about the day after the party. The day John left. Ask him what happened when I tried to get him to come out of his room.’   
  
Greg frowned and tilted his head as Sherlock relayed the answer, somewhat haltingly, directly into his brain.   
  
‘You brought him a slice of cake. It had a bit of an S on it. He threw a petrie dish at your head. He says...well he should say he’s sorry but he still thinks you deserved it.’   
  
Mike smiled a little, then his face fell. ‘It’s really...’   
  
Greg nodded. ‘Look, we need to get him out of there. John’s about to do something really, really bad unless we stop it. Unless we get Sherlock to him  _now_ .’   
  
Mike nodded. ‘He said. He said I wouldn’t believe. Christ, he was right.’   
  
Greg snapped his fingers in front of Mike’s face. ‘Yeah, you can have a mental breakdown later. Now, will you help me?’   
  
Mike finally turned his eyes back to Greg and set his jaw. ‘Yeah. Yes. Let’s get to work.’   
  
Greg let out a breath, then backed up a few steps and launched himself at the bars again. His shoulder slammed into three-inch bars that might as well have been made of steel. His entire right side lit up with pain, and he stumbled away.   
  
Mike scoffed, actually  _scoffed_ , and angled his own body. He bent lower, set his legs harder into the ground, and sprinted at the cage almost headlong, his feet never leaving the ground until a split second before he made contact.   
  
Mike took the blow almost as an afterthought, coming at the bars like a freight train, and there was a massive _CRACK_  at the moment of impact. Mike backed away, absently rubbing his arm and examining the dark line running through at least three of the posts.   
  
‘How the--’ Greg breathed.   
  
*Ha HA!* Sherlock crowed, flapping his wings wildly, his feathers fluffing out like a bird version of Albert Einstein’s crazy hair. *Yes! I knew that empty-headed hobby of theirs had to have some use! Try again!*   
  
Greg watched Sherlock, all but  _dancing_  inside of his confinement, and couldn’t help but smile. ‘Rugby, eh?’   
  
Mike smirked and lined himself up again. ‘Eight years. John never stood a chance against me.’   
  
*He didn’t.* Sherlock confirmed, backing away from the bars in Mike’s way. *Every time John was paired up with Mike in practice he came out of it one giant grass stain.*   
  
Greg eyed Mike launching back into his steam engine impersonation and muttered, ‘If he was lucky.’   
  
Mike hit the bars again. The crack was louder this time, and had friends. Greg watched the bars, and saw bits start to fall off.   
  
*Yes!* Sherlock gasped, his voice a winter wind in Greg’s head. *Nearly there. Come on, Stamford, I know he kept you around all these years for a reason!*   
  
Greg smirked. ‘Yeah, Sherlock says he’s glad to see you aren’t quite the dead weight he though you were.’   
  
Mike set his stance again and rolled his eyes. ‘Tell him to piss off. I put up with him  _and_  the little blond dictator for fifteen fucking years. I deserve a medal by now.’   
  
Greg had to chuckle at that. But his voice died in his throat soon after because Mike’s next hit came with a shattering, splintering sound and damn near half of the cage flat-out  _collapsed_  under the force of his hit. Mike powered straight  _through_  the bars to tumble and roll onto the ground, landing hard enough that Greg was sure he heard something pop under his skin. Mike didn’t even wince, just lay back and panted.   
  
‘Wrong shoes for this.’ He wheezed. ‘Should’ve had it in two.’   
  
*Greg!*   
  
Greg snapped his head back to the cage where Sherlock was struggling against the various bits of wooden bars which had fallen on top of him. Greg hurried over and dragged the longest and heaviest away so Sherlock could shake free of the rest.   
  
*Now!* He cried.   
  
Greg nodded. ‘Mike, in a while there’s a very pretty girl gonna pop out of that water just there. She’ll sort you out. We’ve got to get to the party.’   
  
Mike lifted his head just enough to nod before letting it drop back down. ‘Whatever you say, nutter.’   
  
Greg waited just long enough to watch Sherlock make it to the water before he ran to his tree and scrambled up to his launch limb. Sherlock was already running with his feet skimming the surface of the water by the time Greg finished his change and launched himself toward the ground.   
  
It still took the swan considerably longer to get airborne, but Greg had never seen Sherlock fly with such determination. His wings beat like a machine against the night air, and Greg was suddenly grateful for the new moons that gave Sherlock practise for night flying.   
  
*Get me to the Queen’s House.* Sherlock commanded. *I’ll figure out the next step when we get there.*   
  
*Security is going to be Hell, kid. You’d be better off as a human.*   
  
The force of Sherlock’s  _no_  almost knocked Greg off course, but he shook it off.   
  
*I’d never get there in time without wings. We just need to stop Seb getting to John.*   
  
*Do you really think John’ll fall for it?* Greg ventured. A wave of unease slipped along his mind before Sherlock tamped it down.   
  
*I--I don’t want to think he will. But...I can’t afford any doubts.*   
  
The trip to London was heaps easier without having to follow roads or avoid trees, but Sherlock was so much slower in the air than Greg that he held up little hope of reaching the party in time to intercept Jim and Seb.   
  
They weren’t.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

John couldn’t stop looking at Vienne. She was never more than a few steps away from his mother, but she seemed to exist in an ocean of isolation. She wouldn’t touch anyone, and her eyes never once moved from the door.   
  
So they were what John saw first. Those eyes, green and bright and sad, widened until the whites showed all around the irises, and she dropped the un-sipped glass of champagne in her hand to shatter on the floor.   
  
John whipped round, saw the figure in the door, and the world around him stopped. His first thought, oddly, was _Thank you Harry!_   
  
Because Sherlock was awe-inspiring in that suit. Two years had turned the gangly limbs into clean, fluid lines of sinew and muscle, and the cut of the suit emphasised every graceful, flowing plain of his body to the point where John was having trouble breathing. And he’d had this same body, naked, pinned between his legs just over two weeks ago.   
  
He watched Sherlock’s ice-flow eyes scan the room, felt his body straighten, his shoulders square, and then Sherlock was looking at him, finding him, and Sherlock's lips twitched up at the corners.   
  
He walked through the crowd, all of whom were familiar enough with his pictures to fall silent and let him pass. It was like something out of a film; the press of people parting to let him move unhindered, a human path leading Sherlock Holmes to John Watson.   
  
He was moving oddly, as though he didn't quite know how to work his body, and John wondered just how it must feel to be so surrounded and scrutinised after being isolated for so long.   
  
John took his place in the centre of the dance circle, and one of the coordinators handed him a microphone. He held it up to his lips as Sherlock drew closer, licked them, and extended his hand. Sherlock reached out for it, and his cool, tapered fingers slipped between John’s, locking them together.   
  
John smiled up at him, momentarily forgetting what he was meant to be doing in the desire to kiss every trace of worry and nervousness off of Sherlock’s face.   
  
But first things first.   
  
'Ladies and gentlemen.' He began, pulling Sherlock almost flush with his side. 'Most of you know who I am. I'm that persistent bloke who wouldn't stop phoning you up to make sure you could be here tonight.' A small, hesitant laugh.   
  
'For a good reason.' He went on. 'For those who don't know, my name is John Watson. I'm a soldier in Her Majesty's Armed Forces, and I've brought you, all of you, here tonight because of this man.' He raised Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock smiled shyly and ducked his head. John felt a flash of irritation that Sherlock should feel the need to put on a performance for these people, but that itself felt a bit like breathing again. Annoyance at Sherlock was so exceedingly  _normal_  it almost made him giddy.   
  
'You know his name, his face, but you've never met him. That's because nearly four months ago, Sherlock was taken from us, abducted by people who wanted to make his family suffer.' It was an easy lie, one he and Mycroft had rehearsed for two weeks, and it was one John very nearly wished could be true. 'Two weeks ago, I led a successful mission to recover him and bring him home. And I did that not just because the Holmes family and mine have been friends for many years, but because this man, this…gorgeous, perfect man, is--'   
  
His voice failed him. Sherlock was intently studying the floor, but his hand was clutching John's so tightly it hurt. John squeezed back reassuringly, a silent  _we're gonna be okay_ , and he knew Sherlock would understand. Sherlock always heard him when he didn't speak.   
  
'This man is the love of my life.' He didn't look at the crowd, but at Sherlock, and though he was speaking into the microphone it was so, so much easier to address his words to him and him alone.   
  
'He is…everything. He's why I wake up in the morning. He's what I dream about at night. Every moment, when I'm not touching him, when I can't see him, it feels like dying. Only it never ends. I just goes on. I…can't breathe. Without him.'   
  
Sherlock's lips twitched, but John couldn't make out if it was a smile or a wince, and he tried not to think about the suffering he'd endured at the hands of Moriarty and Moran, when John should have been there to protect him.   
  
'And tonight, when he is  _finally_  back where he belongs, with the people who love him, I want the entire world to hear me when I say that I am  _never_  going to be without him again. Sherlock Holmes,' He swallowed, and refused to face the assembled representatives, all silent and unsure where he was going with all of this. 'Sherlock. I love you. And I will always, always love you. Forever. I promise you.'   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled. But he said nothing.   
  
So John went on, bringing the ruse back in line. He faced the crowd. 'And I want to thank all of you. On behalf of Ambassador Basil Holmes and his family, on behalf of my own family. Without your support and your assistance, we never could have brought him home. So, tonight, this is for Sherlock, and it's for all of you. Thank you, more than I can ever express, for making our family whole again.'   
  
The applause was genuine this time. There were even a few cheers, and John sagged in relief. Hours, days in front of the mirror to get that speech right. Thank God he hadn't flubbed it. He raised his hand to the musicians, and they began to play.   
  
Sherlock's hand tightened further, and John started to worry for his circulation.   
  
'I remember this song.' Sherlock said, his voice distant.   
  
Not quite the first words John had expected to hear from him tonight, but God, anything in that voice.   
  
'You had better.' John smiled. 'We've danced to it enough.'   
  
'The night of the party.' Sherlock said with a nod. 'I rather thought the lights were a bit gaudy.'   
  
John frowned. Sherlock sounded…strange. Like he was mimicking his own voice.   
  
'Are you alright?' John asked.   
  
Sherlock turned to look at him properly and smiled. 'Of course, John. I'm perfect, remember?'   
  
John wasn't convinced, but he took Sherlock's other hand and pulled him closer. 'Come on, then. Let's give the people what they want.'   
  
Sherlock smirked, and his hand snaked down to John's waist. John tensed a little at that. He couldn't remember ever dancing with Sherlock without at least a token disagreement about who led and who followed. Perhaps all those months dancing with Harry had gotten him into a habit.   
  
'Isn't this what you want, too?' Sherlock asked.   
  
John furrowed his brow, but he put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 'Of course it is.' He said. 'You know it is.'   
  
Sherlock took John's free hand in his and they began to move. Well, Sherlock began to move. John sort of stumbled into his rhythm. 'Of course.' Sherlock said. 'Just checking.'   
  
John wasn't really listening, though. He was feeling. In his feet, in his hands, in his hips and his back, he was feeling the way Sherlock was trying to move him, force him, through the steps. His body was remembering every turn and rock and pivot that had passed between them in the last fifteen years, and the two conflicting instructions were jarring against each other.   
  
Because Sherlock's legs were never this stiff when he moved. Sherlock's hands never gripped this tightly. And Sherlock never,  _never_  tried to force John to move with him. Sherlock was a master of coaxing and insinuating and manipulating, and John often found himself moving to Sherlock's rhythm without realising he'd even picked up on it.   
  
Two years could change much, but they couldn't change that.   
  
John looked up into those cold, intense eyes and felt his own widening as he understood.   
  
He curled his fingers into the shoulder, gripping so tightly his knuckles turned white. He found the rhythm and let his movements see to themselves for the most part. He brought himself in closer, breeching the rigid interpersonal space of the waltz, so he could speak quietly into the perfect shell of the man's ear.   
  
'Any man who considers himself a mastermind would be better at this, I think. So I'm guessing you're Moran. Am I right?'   
  
The sculpted lips split into a grin so wide they cracked in places and John could see blood between the bits of chapped skin. 'Oh, well done you, Johnny boy.'  He crooned. In Sherlock's voice. 'Jim was almost certain you'd never pick up on it.'   
  
'Jim is a fucking moron.' John hissed. 'Explain to me why the hell I'm not killing you right now.'   
  
Moran tilted Sherlock's head in a careless shrug. 'Well, for one you'd be arrested. You've got quite the police presence here, Johnny. I doubt it would look good if you were to attack the man you just about proposed to a second ago.'   
  
'Obvious. What else?'   
  
Moran smirked with Sherlock's lips. 'Well, it could be that I've got some friends with fingers on the trigger, ready to make life very complicated for a lot of people in a lot of different countries.'   
  
John remembered his argument with Mycroft on the porch. 'We'll have taken care of them.' He said.   
  
Another smirk. 'Can you be sure?'   
  
John said nothing.   
  
Moran smiled. 'Just keep dancing, Johnny boy. It'll all be over soon.'   
  
John gritted his teeth, his eyes flickering over the crowd in search of laser sights. People were beginning to mill around now, some of them pairing off to join in on the dance. John saw no hint of a sniper threat, but that didn't mean there wasn't one.   
  
'I won't do it.' John whispered. 'You came here for nothing.'   
  
Moran shrugged, and even in Sherlock's body the move was more confident than graceful. 'We'll see.'   
  
Had the song always taken this long to finish? It felt like he'd had Moran's disguised hands on him for hours, but the music was still going. And now Moran was talking again.   
  
'If you want to know the best bit,' He said. 'That night. Fuck. It had to have been the look on the brother's face. Jim's got all these tricks, you see, sort of costumes he can pull on just by thinking about it. He made himself look like walking darkness then, just walked right up to the man and stared at him. Stupid toff couldn't even move.'   
  
'He saw you.' John replied. 'Mycroft must've seen you. Why else take his memory?'   
  
Moran shrugged. 'Bit of fun? Who am I to question Jim's ideas? He's brilliant. I mean, look at how good a job he did on  _my_  costume.'   
  
John closed his eyes and said nothing.   
  
'He's pretty, though, isn't he?' Moran just kept on talking, and John wanted to drive roofing nails through the assassin's eyes. 'He feels so sweet. God, this body. I mean, I knew it felt nice, but it's even better from inside.'   
  
'Shut the fuck up.' John kept his voice measured, his face blank.   
  
Moran just grinned. 'God, I can still taste the blood. When I pulled him out of the car, he was covered in it. Head wounds are like that, you've probably noticed. Bleed for ages. All over that pretty little coat of his. too. I couldn't resist.'   
  
John set his jaw. It took every ounce of his self control not to hurl the man wearing Sherlock's body through the nearest window.   
  
He took a deep breath, and when he spoke his voice never wavered. 'You're a dead man.' He told Moran. 'You died the second you touched him. I want to make sure you know that.'   
  
Moran laughed at that. 'Mm, Johnny. Now you're playing our song. Men like us, we don't need all the intricate planning, all the strategies. Just blood. Just the screams. They make us sharp.'   
  
'You'll bleed.' John assured him. 'I'll see to it. You'll bleed for every second you stole from us.'   
  
Moran's stolen face fell into something serious and cold. 'No one told you to leave him all alone, Johnny. No one put a gun to your head and forced you to enlist. I'm just following orders here, you're the one who left him out in the open for me.'   
  
John ignored him, and Moran just kept going.   
  
'I'll bet you've never heard him scream.' Said Moran. 'I have. He makes you work for it, but it's worth the effort. His voice goes all rough and high, like a kid who's been crying for hours. I bet I can give you a demonstration.'   
  
He ducked his head close to John's ear, and when he spoke again his voice was high, strained, choked with sobs.   
  
' _God! Please stop! I can't--I'll do anything! Stop! Stop, please! Make it stop!'_   
  
John dug his fingers harder into Moran's skin. He could feel blood welling up under his fingernails where they were biting into Moran's hand. Sherlock's hand.   
  
'I am going to kill you.' John said, and it wasn't even remotely a threat. 'Tonight. In the morning, he will stand on his own two feet, and you'll be a corpse.'   
  
Moran smiled. 'I'd like to see you try that.' He said, and in Sherlock's sinful, luscious voice he said, 'I want you to make me  _scream_  Jonny boy. Just. Like. Him.'   
  
John kept his neck and shoulders rigid and shook his head. 'I'm not going to give you the chance.' He met Moran's eye, saw the killer's gaze behind the Sherlock coloured mask. 'I'm not interested in playing with you, Moran. I just want you to die. So the second I get my shot, I am going to kill you. I'll do it quick, maybe not clean, but I will do it right. You have my word on that.'   
  
'And you always keep your word.' Moran drawled, running his hand alongside John's spine.   
  
John fought back the urge to squirm away from the touch and didn't blink. 'Always.'   
  
~~~   
  
*Sherlock, stop!* Greg cried.   
  
Sherlock ignored him and launched himself at the window again. The reinforced glass barely even shook, but Sherlock was sent tumbling through the air toward the ground, dazed and aching.   
  
*Need…he's  _touching_ …stop them.* His thoughts and sendings were jumbled, but Greg seemed to get the idea.   
  
*Yeah, I see it. We're too late to intercept but we can still get John's attention. We've just got to try another way.*   
  
He touched down on the ground beside Sherlock and concentrated on the glass phial around his neck. Once he could stand up, he looked down at his muddy boots and dusty leathers and swiped half-heartedly at the material.   
  
'Won't exactly fit in with that lot, will I?'   
  
*Try, Greg!*   
  
Greg nodded. 'I will. Listen, just wait here, okay? I'll raise a fuss with the black suits and make them fetch Mycroft. He'll let me through.'   
  
*Hurry! We haven't got much time! John's made his vow already!*   
  
Greg paled and hurried toward the door. Sherlock turned his attention to the room on the other side of the window, to John and the imposter. And John looked so handsome, so sleek in his dress uniform. Sherlock would have ripped the world in half for the chance to run his hands over the material covering John's shoulders.   
  
Shoulders which where rigid and tense in the arms of the look-alike. Rigid as they never were when he was with Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock's heart kicked in his chest, and he almost dared to hope.   
  
~~~   
  
'I'm not asking you to let me in!' Greg shouted into the guard's face. He'd tried reasonable, he really had. But Jim and Seb had taken his warrant card the day they brought him in, and without it he was just some punk in leathers with vaguely spikey hair. It didn't win him any friends among the sort of people who made a living talking sotto voce into their wrists.   
  
'Look, just find Mycroft Holmes, alright? Your boss? The posh young guy nobody's supposed to know about? Get him. He knows me.'   
  
'Mister Holmes is unavailable at this time. You will have to wait.'   
  
Greg pressed forward and was immediately pushed back. 'Sod that! I haven't got time to wait! Look, just tell whoever's on the other side of your curly little ear wires that Police Constable G. Lestrade needs to see Mycroft Holmes. Say it's urgent! Tell him I've got the swan with me.'   
  
'Mister Holmes left no instructions for you. We are unaware of any swan code. Please wait until he has time for you, or vacate the premises.' The voice was calm, but the mountain's nostrils were flaring a bit. Greg felt time drawing short.   
  
*Greg…I don't think he's…*   
  
Greg rolled his eyes. Sherlock was a right pain when he was focussed on something. He'd deal with it later. Right now, he was ready to do something desperate.   
  
He took a deep breath, and pounced. In a twinkling he had one of the mountains by the wrist and was shouting directly into his wire.   
  
'Mycroft  _fucking_  Holmes you get your waist-coated arse out  here this bleeding second or I swear to God I'm smashing this glass trinket over your fucking head!'   
  
The mountains got a bit…handsy after that.   
  
~~~   
  
Magic has this way of anticipating itself. Sherlock could always feel the sun or the moon long before they had a chance to physically affect him. He could feel Jim's influence even when it was directed at Greg or Molly, he could even feel the faint tingling of power radiating from Greg and Molly every time they changed.   
  
So he knew what it was, when his muscles twitched and his skin crawled. He knew, even before he saw his double make a move, what was going to happen. He beat his wings and shook his head and screamed like a banshee inside of his mind, he howled and trumpeted loud enough to overpower the commotion coming from the porch, to bury the startled sound of his brother's voice nearby, but he couldn't stop Moran's counterfeit head bowing toward John's, he couldn't force himself between them and drag John away to safety, he could do nothing but watch.   
  
Then, he could do nothing at all.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

The song ended eventually. John was desperately searching his brain for a plan, any tactic to get Moran away from him, preferably incapacitated, without lethal consequences. Unfortunately, almost all of those tactics involved knives or a gun, neither of which he had on him. He hadn't expected he'd need them.   
  
Idiot.   
  
The last vaguely sad notes died away, and John tried to pull away, but Moran's stolen hand gripped tighter around his wrist. He looked up into Sherlock's face, twisted into a grin more wicked than Sherlock had ever worn.   
  
'Not yet, Johnny boy. We're not done.'   
  
John swallowed and blinked the red out of his eyes. Calm. Stay calm.   
  
'Does it still count if I'm a corpse?' He asked. 'Because the only way you could ever get me to kiss you is by killing me first.'   
  
Moran chuckled. 'Oh, I don't think it'll be all that hard.'   
  
'Let me go.'   
  
'Or what? You'll kill me?' The grin widened.   
  
John shook his head. 'I'm going to kill you anyway. You know that. Let me go, and I'll do it quick.'   
  
'You want to hurt me, John?'   
  
'More than you can know.'   
  
Moran ducked his head and looked up at John through his eyelashes. 'Even when I look like this?' He asked, affecting Sherlock's accent and intonations. 'I don't blame you. He bruises beautifully. It's like art.'   
  
John dug his fingers savagely into Moran's shoulder, and was rewarded with a slight wince. 'Change back.'   
  
He shook his head.   
  
John squeezed harder, Moran responded by twisting John's wrist until he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from crying out.   
  
'It's almost cute, how you think you could beat me. You think two years makes you hard enough? I've got a decade on you, easily. And I like it more than you. So be a good boy and do as you're told, and maybe you'll survive the night.'   
  
'I'd rather die.' John gritted out.   
  
Moran shrugged. 'Too bad those aren't my orders.'   
  
John tried to struggle, but Moran's grip was like steel. Movement caught his eye, and he glanced across the room to where a small crowd of guests were making their way to the door with curious expressions.   
  
Something like hope bloomed in his chest, and he returned his attention back to Moran just in time to clamp his lips tightly shut before Moran forced their faces together.   
  
Hands, curled like claws in his hair. Breath, hot and damp against his cheek. And lips, those same perfect, beautiful lips, crushed against his mouth so hard it hurt. John tried to bring his hands up to Moran's chest, to push him away, to force space between them, but Moran's grip never yielded and John could barely move.   
  
He tried, though. By God, he tried.   
  
_Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think--_   
  
He wasn't panicking, but he could feel the panic sliding around just underneath, ready to slip into his brain. He wanted to scream, he wanted to bite down and tear Moran's skin, to taste blood, but he refused to open his mouth, to move his lips at all. He couldn't know, couldn't be sure,  _couldn't take chances._   
  
The door slammed open, there were gasps and cries from the crowd, and Moran's focus relaxed just enough for John to snake out of his grip and get his hands between them. With a desperate shove, he forced Moran back and off him. Moran staggered back, and in the blink of an eye Sherlock's body slid away, Moran's own replacing it.   
  
John only spared half a glance at the door, saw Mycroft staring at him with wide eyes. It was all he needed to know the House was secure. He drew back his fist and slammed it into Moran's face. Moran whirled round as he took the impact and fell to the floor, the side of his head colliding loudly with the black diamond-checked tile.   
  
John stood over Moran's body, breathing hard, his fist still clenched tight enough drain blood from his knuckles. That was okay, though. There was plenty of Moran's to make up for it.   
  
John looked up again, ignored the scandalised and shocked party guests, and Mycroft was there, his face just as pale but for very different reasons.   
  
Greg Lestrade was standing beside him, eyes and mouth wide. And if Lestrade was here…   
  
John leapt over Moran's unconscious body and sprinted for the door. He didn't feel the impact when he crashed between Mycroft and Lestrade, and if his feet ever actually touched the stairs on the porch he never felt it.   
  
What he could feel, what dug into his chest and twisted inside of his heart, was a gaping, howling emptiness. And he followed it, dove into it, until its screaming was all he could hear.   
  
Maybe that was what led him to where he needed to be. Maybe Lestrade had told him and some part of him paid attention. He wasn't sure and he didn't care. The only thing that could possibly have mattered, was how the snow-white feathers shone against almost black grass. How the moonlight made the body seem almost to glow, or maybe that was the blurriness in John's vision.   
  
Sherlock's body was warm under his hands, still warm. It was motionless, save for the trembling from John's  hands. And it was heavier than he expected when he gathered it to him, clutched it close, his heart screaming where he couldn't. Or maybe he could. He couldn't hear it, but then he couldn't hear much of anything. His throat was burning enough for it.   
  
'..hn.  John.  _John!_ '   
  
Mycroft's voice finally broke though, or perhaps it was the hand desperately shaking his shoulder. Either way, John managed to string some thoughts together, managed to keep his voice calm.   
  
'Get a car. We need to get him to the lake.'   
  
There was no argument. There were no questions. There was movement, there was Lestrade with his hand pressed over his heart as though to staunch bleeding that wasn't there, his face pale and drawn, there was a black sedan with Mycroft in the driving seat, there was the slam of a door, and Sherlock still motionless in his lap, his feathers soft as silk under John's fingers.   
  
He was still warm.   
  
~~~   
  
_Not my brother. That's not my brother. Can't be my brother._  Mycroft tried desperately to push the ridiculous, irritatingly useless thought from his mind, but it clung stubbornly and would not be silenced. It ran like a current under his functional thoughts, the ones noting and following Constable Lestrade's slightly  unnecessary directions from the passenger seat, the ones navigating the darkened roads and minding traffic, the ones allowing him to walk the razor-balance between speed and legality. He would  _not_  risk a police encounter, not when every second was precious.   
  
And it was precious. That much was abundantly apparent, and not just from the way John was clutching the swan to his body as though willing his heart to beat for them both, the way his fingers never stopped threading through the jet black feathers crowning its-- _HIS, his--_ head, the way his voice broke and sobbed through his endless pleas and promises.   
  
But there was also Lestrade, whose face was corpse pale, who kept pressing his hand directly over his heart, who could never seem to draw a full breath. Mycroft knew, as John knew, the sort of connection which passed between his brother and this man. Lestrade, he suspected, knew things about Sherlock's condition that neither Mycroft nor John could bear to hear spoken aloud.   
  
So he drove. He paid attention and he said little and he listened to John choking out prayers to anyone who might be listening and he tried to ignore the look of mourning Lestrade was attempting to conceal and the part of his traitorous brain which refused to reconcile the deceptively delicate looking bird in John's arms with the brother he'd lost.   
  
' _…sorry, I'm so, so sorry. Please, please don't--_ '   
  
' _…didn't kiss him. Do you hear me? I didn't. It shouldn't count! Please! I'll do anything--_ '   
  
' _…forgive me. I couldn't--I tried. Oh God, please. Please, I love you. Don't leave me, not like this. I love you…_ '   
  
' _…be stronger for you, couldn't protect you. I'll be better, I swear, just one more chance, I'm begging you--_ '   
  
'Left here.'   
  
Lestrade's voice startled him enough that he jerked the wheel and they nearly careened off the road.   
  
'Sorry.' Lestrade winced as Mycroft got them back in line.   
  
Mycroft shook his head, didn't respond. He glanced up to the rear view so he could see John's face, his body curled around the achromatic bird. 'How--' It was all he could manage to say before his throat sealed around further speech. It was enough to get John's notice.   
  
'Warm.' John's voice shook, just like the rest of him. 'Still warm. Loose.'   
  
Mycroft saw Lestrade swallow past something painful. 'Is he--can you tell if he's…?'   
  
John shook his head. 'Can't find a pulse point. Can't tell if he's breathing. Come on, my love,  _breathe_ .'   
  
Lestrade faced forward again and tilted his head back against the headrest. Mycroft's thoughts and voice ran away from him, and he asked quietly, 'What do you feel?'   
  
Lestrade clenched his eyes shut and breathed harshly through his nose. 'Torn.' He gritted out. 'Like something's been ripped out of me.'   
  
'Entirely?' Again, his voice ran off before he could catch it. He would need to find a way to circumvent such slips.   
  
Lestrade shook his head. 'Not yet. Turn right just ahead.'   
  
'Constable…'   
  
Lestrade shook his head, he was looking a bit green now. 'Don't. You'll know. If it happens. It's just ahead now.'   
  
Mycroft studied the view through the windscreen. 'Mr Lestrade, there's nothing ahead.'   
  
Lestrade spared him a look, there was something a bit like pity in it, and Mycroft regretted the words.   
  
'Yes. Yes of course.' He kept his attention on the road.   
  
When Lestrade commanded him to stop just before a rather pathetic looking stand of trees, he knew better than to question it. He opened the door for John, helped him find his balance as he clung to Sherlock's body, then found himself with an armful of unconscious swan while John strode up to a seemingly random sapling and gave it a savage yank, tearing it up by several roots so it hung precariously to lean against its neighbour.   
  
Without a word, John returned and gently pulled Sherlock back into his arms. With Lestrade only a step behind, he stepped over the newly felled tree and vanished into the shadows beyond.   
  
Mycroft forced himself not to hesitate and followed. He permitted himself half a second to blink at the hidden world on the other side, then joined John and Lestrade along what looked to be a very newly beaten footpath leading somewhere deep inside the forest.   
  
~~~   
  
Mike and Molly were already awaiting them when they crashed into the clearing. John barely noticed them, all of his focus set on the coal black mass of water in front of him. He wasted no time, but ran as fast as he dared to the shoreline where he fell to his knees and gently, so gently, lowered the swan into the water. Sherlock didn't move.   
  
The lake healed. The lake kept him safe. If he knew anything, he knew that. He'd seen himself what Molly could do, how she protected him. She would do so now. She had to.   
  
'Please.' He whispered. ' _Please_ .'   
  
And Molly was beside him, tears pouring from her eyes, her hand clutched over her heart. 'Oh, John.'   
  
John looked up at her, saw her recoil from whatever look was on his face.   
  
' _Please_ .' He begged.   
  
She closed her eyes and placed her free hand over Sherlock's wing. In the next moment, she was only water. A moment after that, she became a wave. It rose up and cocooned Sherlock's body. There was a flash of silver light, as though she'd drawn the moon into the lake with her, and the wave rolled back.   
  
He heard Mycroft's indrawn breath and Mike's curse, but they didn't matter. Sherlock was lying in the water, soaked through, and completely human. John pulled him upright and pressed him close. His skin was cold, but that was probably from the water. Right?   
  
John shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders, then held his breath and brought the tips of his first two fingers to the pulse point on Sherlock's neck. He had a brief flash of sinking his teeth lightly into that very flesh, of tasting the salt of it on his tongue, and he almost missed the faint, barely there flutter of Sherlock's pulse under his fingertips.   
  
He drew in a sharp breath and licked his lips. Alive. Sherlock was alive!   
  
'Molly!' He cried. 'Molly!'   
  
Lestrade splashed into the water beside them just as Molly took shape.   
  
'Kid?' Lestrade ran a hand over Sherlock's face, like a mother checking for fever. 'Sherlock?' He looked at Molly, his eyes wide.   
  
Molly shook her head. 'I can't feel him either.'   
  
John's heart skipped painfully. 'What does that mean?' He demanded.   
  
'I don't know.' Molly answered. 'It's never--we could always feel it. But it's just…gone. Like he's missing.'   
  
'You can heal him!' John insisted. 'You always do! He's still alive, can't you help him?!'   
  
Molly gave him a pleading look. 'I am trying, John! I promise you. But I can't find what's wrong with him. It's not a wound I can heal with a touch, it's something  _inside_ of him. It's Jim's magic, hurting him where I can't reach!'   
  
'He's dying!' John cried, and the word was like the first crack in a thin layer of ice. John felt his whole world shattering and crumbling around him as he realised it was true. Sherlock was dying in his arms and he could do nothing to stop it.   
  
'Molls.' Lestrade said softly, one hand on Molly's shoulder. 'The house. The door.'   
  
Molly looked at him, confused, then her eyes widened. 'Greg…I'm not--'   
  
He shook his head. 'No, luv. Not your power. You.'   
  
Molly's hand flew to her hair, which had gotten shorter since John saw her last. 'Do you think…?'   
  
'We have to try.' Lestrade insisted. 'We can't lose him, Moll. You feel it, too. It's ripping at you same as me.'   
  
Molly closed her eyes and nodded. She ran a tress through her fingers. 'It's not enough.' She whispered. 'But I think I know another way.' She looked up at Lestrade imploringly.   
  
He nodded and stood, hurrying to Sherlock's shelter. He appeared again a moment later, a plastic bowl in his hand, and hurried to give it to Molly.   
  
'Pull him clear of the water.' She said. 'I haven't got the strength to be delicate about this.'   
  
John did as he was told, pulling Sherlock into his lap so he was at least partially on dry land. Molly reached confidently into the water and pulled out a thin, jagged stone not yet worn smooth by the force of the lake. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and ran the stone over the pale skin of her arm, drawing a long slice through the flesh.   
  
'Molly!'   
  
' _Don't_  argue, Greg.' She bit out. She tossed the stone aside and held the bowl under the cut, letting blood flow freely from her body into the container. She waited until she'd collected a decent amount, then dropped her bleeding arm into the water. When it re-emerged, there wasn't so much as a scar to betray where the cut had been.   
  
She held out the bowl to John, and he stared at it, unable to move.   
  
'Just water.' She assured him. 'Take it.'   
  
He reached out and took the bowl. The moment it passed the shoreline, the thick blood became clear water, sloshing gently against the sides.   
  
'All of it.' Mycroft knelt behind John, close enough to feel but not touching. 'To be safe.'   
  
John shook his head. 'Nothing about this is safe, Mycroft.' He whispered, but he tilted Sherlock's head slightly upright and brought the bowl to his lips. Lestrade helped get Sherlock's lips and teeth apart, and John managed to pour in the first bit of water with very little spilling.   
  
It took a moment, one very tense and breathless moment, but eventually Sherlock's throat contracted and he swallowed the water reflexively. John tried again, and Sherlock took it a bit more quickly this time.   
  
Slowly, methodically, Sherlock drank the water that had been Molly's blood. John fancied he could almost see it coursing inside of Sherlock's body, waging war with whatever Moriarty had put in him, whatever insubstantial poison was killing him.   
  
When the water was gone, they waited in silence, John holding Sherlock so tightly it must've hurt, if Sherlock were present enough to notice. Long moments passed, and Sherlock never moved, barely even breathed.   
  
'Come on.' John breathed. ' _Come on_ . Wake up. Please. Sherlock, fight this! I know you can. Fuck, you're so strong. Look what you've been through, all you've survived. You  _can't_  let this beat you, you can't!' He buried his face in Sherlock's shirt, felt the water soaking into his skin. 'Please, Sherlock! You can't leave me like this. You promised me. You said we'd have a lifetime. Please, love, I can't do this alone. Sherlock!  _Sherlock_ !'   
  
Silence fell, and nothing changed. For a moment, John feared they were too late, that Sherlock had passed beyond some threshold and couldn't be saved.   
  
Then Sherlock's entire body spasmed, arching bow-like in John's arms, and Sherlock drew in a deep, ragged gasp. His eyes shot open and his hands scrambled at the ground, clawing at the dirt and stones.   
  
Sherlock gasped again, and writhed in John's grip so hard he broke free and tumbled sidelong into the shallow water. He started making noises, halfway between heaving and screams, and retched dryly with one hand clutching his stomach, the other grasping desperately at weeds, stones, anything within reach.   
  
'Sherlock!' John tried to reach out to him, but Sherlock flinched away and continued to convulse.   
  
Lestrade and Molly looked in horror, and Mike stumbled away. Only Mycroft came closer, slid beside his brother, somehow managed to snake his arms around Sherlock's spasming abdomen and gently pulled him upright to his back was to Mycroft's chest.   
  
Mycroft wrapped one arm around Sherlock's chest, the other around his belly, and spoke quietly into Sherlock's ear.   
  
'Ride it out. Easy. Just breathe, Sherlock, breathe and maintain focus. Keep calm. Don't panic,  _petit_ , I've got you. You're secure.'   
  
John had never heard anyone use that term but Vienne. It was the only thing close to an endearment that Sherlock would tolerate, and only from his mother. Even John would never dream of saying it.   
  
But Sherlock's bucking and flailing began to slow, and his breathing started to even, and soon he went slack in his brother's arms, listless and weak, his convulsions reduced to twitches in his muscles. His eyes were closed, his head lolling back to rest on Mycroft's shoulder.   
  
'How did you know it would work?' Lestrade asked. 'Christ, I thought it was killing him!'   
  
Molly paled and shrank away, and Lestrade reached out to pull her back to him. 'No, no, don't. He's okay, see?'   
  
'I didn't.' Mycroft admitted. 'I hoped. I didn't want him to hurt himself unduly.'   
  
'John…'   
  
Sherlock's voice was weak, barely more than an exhale. John moved over to the Holmes brothers and let Sherlock pitch forward to slump against him. He reached down to collect the jacket Sherlock had thrown off in his fit and wrapped it around the trembling shoulders again.   
  
'Oh, God Sherlock.' He whispered. 'I'm so sorry. I tried to stop him, I didn't want to--'   
  
'Shhh…' It was barely loud enough to hear, but John shut up. 'Saw. Know.'   
  
'Sherlock, I--'   
  
'Hurts.' His voice was a bit stronger now, but still strained. 'Inside. Burning.'   
  
Molly let out a noise but quickly stifled it. She clasped her hands over her mouth. There were tears streaming from her eyes. John glanced over to Lestrade, and he looked much the same.   
  
Sherlock reached out a shaky arm in their direction. Molly reached him first, and he took her hand in a death grip, his hand trembling so badly it shook her whole arm. Lestrade reached him a moment later and wrapped his hand around both of theirs where they rested in Molly's lap.   
  
'Lost you.' Sherlock managed. 'So empty.'   
  
'Shush.' Molly soothed. 'We know. Don't try to speak.'   
  
Sherlock whimpered, burying his face in John's neck. Both Molly and Lestrade's faces smoothed, and they donned identical expressions of relief and regret, and John wondered what silent message was passing between them. He didn't ask, though. Probably he never would.   
  
'What happened?' Molly asked, looking at John.   
  
John closed his eyes. 'Moran. I couldn't fight him.'   
  
'He kissed you.'   
  
John nodded. 'I couldn't--'   
  
'You didn't kiss him.' Sherlock said, his voice much stronger though his body was still very limp.   
  
'Does that matter?' John asked.   
  
Sherlock's nod was loose and clumsy. 'I'm not dead.' He said. 'Looks like it does.'   
  
'Sherlock,' Mycroft spoke calmly but insistently. 'We need to get you free of here. It's become clear that James Moriarty wants you dead. You cannot remain at this lake.'   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'Can't. I'm still under the spell.'   
  
John clenched his jaw. 'I did it, though!' He snarled. 'I made the vow. I did everything! It was all for you! I did it for you!'   
  
'But not  _to_  me.' Sherlock told him. 'To Sebastian Moran.'   
  
'He looked like you, Sherlock! I thought I was talking to you! Doesn't that count for anything?'   
  
Sherlock hissed through his teeth and arched his back, his fingers tightening around Molly's so much it made her wince and bite back a shout.   
  
'I can still feel them.' He gasped. 'In my head.' He rolled his eyes to focus on his fellow prisoners. 'Stop worrying so much, you're giving me a headache. It'll pass. It's better already.'   
  
'Sherlock, what more can I do?' John asked. 'What if we bring you back to the Queen's House?'   
  
'No time. Sunrise. I can already feel it.'   
  
John paled. 'We need to get you back into the water.'   
  
Sherlock smiled thinly at him. 'Not yet. There's a little time still.'   
  
'No there isn't.'   
  
They all looked up at the sound of Mike's voice, and there were Moriarty and Moran atop the hill, making their way down to the lake.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

John changed instantly. It was like a switch had been flipped. He jerked his head to Mycroft, who still cradled Sherlock's limp body to his chest.   
  
'Mycroft, tell me I've got something.'   
  
Mycroft frowned. 'I-I don't know. I had anticipated the attack to take place at the party itself, not here. There… there could be a gun in the car's glove compartment.'   
  
John hissed through his teeth. 'On the other side of the forest.' He gritted out. 'Right, okay. Lestrade, get to the car and bring something lethal back with you. Mycroft, don't let your brother do anything stupid. Mike, keep your eyes on the little one and help the girl. Miss Hooper?'   
  
Molly met his eye.   
  
'Keep him safe.'   
  
She nodded.   
  
Greg got up on one knee, then paused. He turned to Molly, stretching his arm out to brush his finger across her brow. Something passed between them, then. It flickered on the edge of Sherlock's awareness, full of determination and resignation, something horribly similar to a good-bye. Greg bowed his head and Molly turned her face into his hand, gripping tightly to his wrist. It took all of a few seconds, and then Greg was bounding out of the water and past the tree line.   
  
Molly stood, wobbling a bit, and took up a wide-legged stance atop the water facing the distant figure of Jim. Mike rose behind her, standing a bit uncertainly just behind her left shoulder.   
  
John moved to stand. Sherlock reached out a weak hand, but he couldn't cover the distance.   
  
'John--you can't--'   
  
'I have to.'   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'Unarmed. He wants me.' He closed his eyes briefly against the pain, but whether from Molly's blood or his own heart, he couldn't say. 'Please.'   
  
John shook his head. 'You're wrong. I'm in this now. Moran's after blood, and I won't let it be yours. Please trust me.'   
  
Sherlock glowered, but he made a show of going limp in Mycroft's hold. 'Come. Back.' He commanded, even if the involuntary tremor in his voice did make it sound a touch desperate.   
  
John said nothing, but he darted in to press a fleeting kiss to Sherlock's lips before he, too, stood up and walked out of the water.   
  
'He likes to talk.' Molly said. 'Seb won't act without an order, it could buy you time.'   
  
John nodded and took his stand at the foot of the hill.   
  
~~~   
  
John Watson had never been in a war. Whatever Mike or Sherlock might like to tease, the fact was that his deployment had been little more than a prolonged training exercise with the occasional prevented or snuffed-out skirmish to spice things up. He'd killed one man, in his career, but it had been enough. He knew he could do it again.   
  
Sebastian Moran was looking at him like a tiger sizing up its prey. He smiled like he was licking his chops. Whatever they told him about Moriarty, Moran was the one who mattered. Moran was the threat.   
  
But Moriarty was doing the talking.   
  
'I suppose I could tell you how useless all of…this,' He gestured vaguely at the clearing. 'Is. But you won't listen. So instead, let me tell you how this is going to work. You're going to make your heroic last stand while my little pet over there,' eyebrows arched in Sherlock's direction. 'Tries to think of a way to save you. He won't. I don't know how he survived the curse, yet, but he's in no condition to be carrying out any last minute plans.'   
  
Moriarty smirked and scanned his eyes over the scene, breathing in deeply. 'Mm, perfect. You know, I couldn't have picked a better ending? The pair of you, here, together, watching each other die. I never intended to give Sherlock his heart but now that I have, I'm going to enjoy burning it away bit. By. Bit.' He smiled wider. 'I'll start with the bird. Don't think I missed his little exit. Going to fetch help, I imagine.' Moriarty snorted. 'Do you honestly think there's anywhere he could go where I couldn't reach him?'   
  
Moriarty raised his hand, and both Sherlock and Molly let out sudden, pained yelps. John darted his gaze to Sherlock. He looked relatively okay, though his hand was over his chest and his rapidly blinking eyes were fixed on the forest. John refocussed on Moran, keeping Moriarty in his periphery. There was silence from the trees.   
  
'Hm. Impressive. But then, he has had an awful lot of practice.' Moriarty said, lowering his hand.   
  
They were close enough now that John could see the gun in Seb's hand. A handgun, possibly a SIG but it was still too far away to see for certain. Not too far away to make a kill shot, though. John's heart gave a kick and his gun hand itched. He pleaded silently for Lestrade to hurry.   
  
'Anything.' The word, weak and strangled as it was, brought both men to a halt. They and John turned their heads to the lake, where Sherlock was breathing heavily and struggling weakly in Mycroft's hold.   
  
His eyes were on Moriarty.   
  
'Anything. Jim…please.'   
  
Moriarty grinned and tilted his head, rather like a lizard. 'Oh my beautiful pet,' He said, then his grin fell and his face aped an expression of despair. 'It's too late for that. Seb?'   
  
'NO!' Sherlock screamed. John whipped his head back to Moran in time to see him raise the gun. Something brown shot from the trees, coming at Moran like a cannonball. There was a hint of wing, a flash of talons, and Moran was cursing, gripping his forearm as blood seeped between his fingers.   
  
'John, run!' Molly called from the water. 'The trees!'   
  
John legged it, and a veritable wall of water hurled itself from the lake to crash between him and Moran, covering his retreat.   
  
He made it past the treeline before the water dissipated, and in time to hear two gunshots. His blood ran cold, and he was turning back to the clearing when Lestrade burst into the wood, tumbling to the ground as he shifted from bird to man. He landed heavily on his chest, but sprang up instantly and made for the nearest tall tree.   
  
'Les-'   
  
'He's fine! Seb won't touch him without permission, now come on before he follows!'   
  
John hurried after Lestrade, matching his movements to find the hand and footholds. They met up again in the canopy, where Lestrade was keeping a wary eye on the clearing.   
  
'I thought I told you to get me a weapon.' John hissed.   
  
'I don't take orders from soldiers. Besides, I know Jim and Seb better than you do. Jim doesn't make stupid mistakes like letting people stall for time.'   
  
John sighed and slumped back against the tree. He could hear the crashing of Moran following after them and felt an odd sense of relief. At least if Moran was after them, he wouldn't be pointing that gun of his at Sherlock.   
  
Then a bullet embedded itself in the bark two inches to the left of John's head, and John went to work.   
  
~~~   
  
At the sound of the first gunshot from inside the forest, Sherlock lurched out of his brother's arms and collapsed into the water.   
  
'Sherlock, stop it!' Mycroft snapped.   
  
'John--' Sherlock reached out, trying to find something to grab, some leverage to pull him closer to the trees. 'John!'   
  
'Sherlock you'll hurt yourself!'   
  
'Listen to your brother, Sherlock.' Jim smirked. 'After all, there's really nothing you can do.'   
  
Sherlock ignored him and made another lurch, this time clearing the water enough that his belly pressed against the rough stone and dirt of the shoreline.   
  
'Damn it to hell, Sherlock!' Mycroft snarled, then two strong arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist and he was dragged back, thrashing as much as his limited strength would allow.   
  
'Mycroft, let me go! I need to--'   
  
'To what, you simpleton? What good could you possibly do for him?'   
  
Sherlock felt something then, a cold, heavy ripple in that part of himself that connected him to Molly and Greg. He jerked his head to the side and there was Jim, slowly raising his hand and walking toward them, his gait slow and measured.   
  
He could feel Molly's exhaustion, acute amidst his own. In his head, it felt a bit like the taste of strawberries, soursweet and sharp. She was standing, bracing herself, and Mike was behind her with one hand hovering just behind her shoulder. He should do something, he should be…should do…   
  
'Sherlock!'   
  
He gasped, blinking focus back into his eyes. The pain was ebbing but in its place he could feel something empty, like he'd been hollowed out. He was slack in Mycroft's arms and when had that happened? He tried to move, his limbs were jelly.   
  
'M-Moll--'   
  
'Just hold on Sherlock!' Her voice was shaky. He caught a flash of movement through his eyelashes and something surged in him, strength flooding his body for a brief moment before he was drained again.   
  
He forced his eyes to open properly. Jim was there, crouched low and balancing with the aid of one hand, but not yet fallen to his knees. Molly was swaying.   
  
_John_ .   
  
Gunshots. Muffled by the forest but definite and undeniable. The sharp tang of Greg's fear interlacing Molly's weariness until Sherlock's head was spinning. If only he could see through Greg's eyes, know John was all right. This second-hand emoting was killing him and with Molly's strength surging and ebbing he could barely separate one mind from another.   
  
_John_ …   
  
~~~   
  
He couldn't see Lestrade, could barely see where the leaves and branches were shaking under his weight, but he'd gotten the hang of it now, and at least he could keep Moran in sight.   
  
His arms were beginning to ache, and his thighs burned from the unnatural angle of his crouch, but it was just…a…bit…longer…there!   
  
He launched himself at the branch, gripping on with both hands. He felt the bark tear at the skin on his palms as he swung himself out, both feet smashing into Moran's back with a satisfying  _slam_ . He didn't give Moran a chance to recover but instead used the rest of his momentum to roll into the undergrowth. He was halfway up the next trunk by the time Moran had raise his gun arm.   
  
Lestrade's hand appeared from the canopy and grabbed John by the sleeve, pulling him up. John had just enough time to see the strain etched on Lestrade's face before the PC was off again. John heard a thump, then a gunshot, then nothing.   
  
He moved as quietly as he could, slipping from branch to branch until he found a secluded spot where he could let himself down. From his vantage point, he could make out Moran's silhouette. John followed the motion of the gun, watching Moran's stance until he was sure the enforcer was facing away from him.   
  
His heart was hammering inside his chest, his mouth was dry, but his body remained steady and he eased his way across the distance, moving up quietly and slowly.   
  
He reached down and picked up a stone, heavy and round and rough. It felt a bit cavemanish, but he didn’t mind that. One solid blow, back of the head, grab the gun and make sure.   
  
~~~   
  
'Careful!' Mike's voice swam inside Sherlock's ears. His blood ached, which would have been fascinating had he the energy to appreciate it. Moriarty's power moved inside him and he thought he was going to be sick. He heard another gunshot, his head was spinning, Mycroft didn't even need to hold him back anymore, just hold him upright.   
  
'Mo--Moll--ly…' He could barely hear his own voice. There was no chance Molly could hear it over Mike's babbling, something about blood pressure…possibly the word  _aneurysm_ was in there or maybe that was just in Sherlock's own head.   
  
'Hold on,  _petit_ . Hold on.'   
  
Maman. But, no, her hands were smaller, softer. They didn't have those calluses or that crook in the little finger. God he wanted her now. Wanted her voice humming along to the record player. He was shaking now. He felt cold.   
  
Something was closing in on him. Something dark, something big. There was a rushing in his ears, and he wondered if he was drowning…   
  
'Molly…stop…'   
  
_John.  
  
I'm sorry_ .   
  
~~~   
  
Just a little closer. Moran had his gun trained on the canopy, jerking occasionally as Lestrade rustled leaves first here, then there, seemingly without pattern or regard for distance. John wondered if they'd played this game before. Clearly Lestrade was no stranger to improvising for his life.   
  
Not far now, and John would have a clear shot. He pleaded silently for Lestrade to keep the goon occupied, keep him from turning round. He raised his hand, shifted his weight.   
  
'Ack!' The sound startled them both, and John barely managed to keep still as Moran jerked toward Lestrade's voice. A moment later there was a crash and a thud and Lestrade staggered through the trees. John moved to intercept him and Moran moved to get a sight line.   
  
John reached the treeline just in time to see Lestrade burst into the clearing at a full sprint, racing toward the lake. Moran was just behind, and John barely had time to register the wide-legged stance, the raised arms, the dull black of the gun trained on Lestrade.   
  
He didn't think. His body seemed to move on its own. Time almost seemed to slow with the arc of Moran's gun taking aim. John dove, Lestrade ran, Moran squeezed the trigger.   
  
John's shoulder exploded.   
  
~~~   
  
It took Sherlock three precious seconds to realise he was awake, that he was lucid, and what had awakened him.   
  
This shot had been so much louder.   
  
Closer.   
  
In the open.   
  
He could feel Greg in his mind, worried and frantic and  _close_ and  _alive_ .   
  
Seb didn't miss.   
  
'JOHN!'   
  
~~~   
  
Pain.   
  
Pain.   
  
Burning and cold and  _pain_ .   
  
The world swam, his hears rang, and his entire body was screaming at him on behalf of his left shoulder, which was on fire. He gasped and his lungs were buckling. He wanted to scream and his throat was clenched tight. His nose was full of the stench of blood and his eyes couldn't focus past the large splotch of reddish black dancing just in front of them.   
  
He thought he could hear splashing, but that could have been his imagination. Mostly he heard ringing and the rush of his blood as it pumped out of his body. He saw movement, and he forced his eyes to look. A blurry figure was moving, lifting something both dull and shining. A voice was speaking, but it was like listening to a language you barely knew.   
  
'… _forgot about you, did you? …plenty of time to play with him… enjoy this… fun while it lasted_ …'   
  
John felt the ghost of long fingers on his skin, the memory of soft lips against his own. He saw a pair of piercing glacial eyes, clear amidst his blurred vision. He waited for his life to flash before his eyes. It was one he wouldn't mind reliving.   
  
'Good bye, Johnny Boy.'   
  
A click, a chuckle, and John closed his eyes.  _Forgive me, Sherlock. I love you_ .   
  
He felt the rush of air before he registered the crash. He opened his eyes and Moran had been replaced by Mike, who was clutching at his shoulder and moving clumsily toward John.   
  
'John! Johnny! Can you hear me? Can you see?'   
  
'Fucking gorgeous, Mike. Fucking…spectacular.'   
  
Mike grinned. 'Yeah, well. I may not be a soldier but I get the job done.'   
  
The grin dropped and Mike's hands were on him, checking his pulse and pressing down on the wound. 'We need to stop this bleeding.'   
  
'Water…' John whispered. 'Molly.'   
  
Mike's face fell further. 'John…she's…she vanished.'   
  
John's eyes flew wide open. Sherlock! Who was protecting Sherlock?   
  
~~~   
  
'John!' Sherlock screamed himself hoarse, though his voice still barely managed audible levels. He thrashed as much as he could in Mycroft's arms.   
  
'Be still!' Mycroft hissed. 'You're wearing yourself down! Mike has medical training, he's better equipped to help than any of us. What are you doing?'   
  
This last was not directed at Sherlock, but at Greg, still dripping from the moment Molly had collapsed in his arms. He was standing and breathing heavily, and Sebastian's gun was in his hand.   
  
He was pointing it at Jim.   
  
'Bring her back.' He gritted out. He was almost shaking with fury.   
  
Jim's face was bored, but his eyes were trained on the gun. 'What makes you think I can?'   
  
'Don't!' Greg shook the gun a bit, moving it between Jim's chest and his head. 'Don't try it. I know what you do. All her power, all she is. You did that. You gave it to her. You made her the way she is, now bring her back!'   
  
Jim sighed. 'Even if I could. You'll kill me anyway.'   
  
Greg grinned, sickly and tense. 'You'd like that, yeah? Make me like you, like him?' He jerked his head at Moran's unconscious body.   
  
Sherlock listened, but most of his attention was on Mycroft's grip and getting to John. He was feeling stronger since Molly collapsed, and he didn't want to speculate why. Maybe she'd managed to damage Jim somehow.   
  
'Sherlock, stop!' Mycroft hissed. 'I am begging you. Rest.'   
  
But the wheels were turning and things were slotting into place and Sherlock's eyes widened.   
  
'Get me out of the water.' He said.   
  
'Sherlock,'   
  
' _Now_ , Mycroft!' He snarled. 'Do it! Hurry.'   
  
He felt Mycroft stand behind him, felt himself drawn up first to his knees then to his feet. Mycroft slung Sherlock's arm over his shoulders and gingerly walked them both onto the shore.   
  
'Greg!' Sherlock called.   
  
Greg spared him a glance, and Sherlock used what strength he had to push shared memories into Greg's mind. He watched his friend flinch, watched his hand tighten on the gun.   
  
'Get in.' Greg commanded, jerking the barrel of the gun toward the lake then back to Jim.   
  
Jim's face paled, though his features remained impassive. 'No.'   
  
'Get. In.' Greg raised the gun higher, level with Jim's forehead. 'Now.'   
  
Jim's eyebrows knit together and his mouth twisted.   
  
'Get.' Greg rested his finger on the trigger. 'In.'   
  
'Mycroft.' Sherlock gasped through the weariness. 'Watch him. Do not take your eyes off him.'   
  
'Moriarty?'   
  
Sherlock shook his head.   
  
Jim swallowed but stood firm.   
  
Greg lowered the gun so it was pointing at Jim's belly. 'Get in the water.' He growled. 'Or I make it slow.'   
  
Jim paled further. Sherlock saw his jaw clench, saw his weight shift and shift back. Then, with tension in every inch of him, Jim took a step toward the lake. Greg kept the gun trained on him, and Jim moved to the shore, then took a breath and stepped into the water.   
  
Light flashed, blinding Sherlock with its intensity. When he could see again, Greg was on his back, gasping in air, his body glowing with afterimage or magic, Sherlock couldn't tell. Jim was waist-deep in the lake, tendrils of water wrapped tightly around his wrists, holding him fast.   
  
'Greg!' Sherlock choked, no longer able to shout.   
  
Greg groaned and sat up, rubbing at his head with his free hand, his other still held the gun.   
  
'John.' Sherlock jerked his head to where Mike was tearing strips from his shirt. Greg got to his feet and hurried to join him.   
  
'Mycroft.' Sherlock turned to his wide-eyed brother. 'Please.'   
  
Mycroft gaped after Greg for a moment longer, then visibly shook himself out of it. 'Yes. Yes, of course… Of course, Sherlock.'   
  
~~~   
  
'Hold on, John. Just hold on. We'll get you out of here.'   
  
'Mike…' John clutched at his friend's shoulder. 'Is he--'   
  
'Sherlock is fine, John. Please try not to strain yourself.'   
  
John's vision was wavering, the make-shift bandages were digging into his skin, he couldn't manage to turn his head, couldn't see Sherlock, couldn't bloody  _think_ .   
  
Lestrade appeared beside Mike. He yanked the glass phial from around his neck. 'Here, mate. Just hang on.' He popped the cap and pulled back the bandage. A moment later the fire in John's shoulder ebbed and he could breathe again.   
  
Mike glanced at the phial and at Lestrade, who nodded toward the lake. Mike shrugged.   
  
'It won't fix him, but it'll buy us time.' Lestrade said, then gulped. 'Christ, mate.'   
  
'I'm okay.' John lied. Lestrade didn't look like he bought it.   
  
Movement, behind Mike's shoulder. Moran was standing, Moran was reaching for his leg, Moran was moving toward the lake.   
  
Something sparked behind John's eyes. There was a gun by Lestrade's leg, near John's right hand. He didn't question it. Didn't think. He grabbed the gun, aimed, squeezed the trigger. There was a deafening report, a scarlet flash of blood, a look of surprise and agony. Moran's body collapsed to the ground.   
  
Pain exploded again, this time centred on his right wrist before lancing back to his left shoulder. He cried out and fell back, light flickering in the corner of his eye.   
  
~~~   
  
A shot rang out, and Sherlock fell to his knees. For an insane moment he thought he'd been shot. Then something vital, something strong, surged into his body and he gasped, feeling his lungs fill up with sweet air. His vision cleared, his hands stilled, his arms braced him.   
  
He was glowing. Soft and golden, like candle light. So it hadn't been afterimage after all.   
  
He looked up and took it in. John was still holding the gun, his face contorted in agony as Mike fretted over him. Greg was standing over Moran, dumbstruck and loose-limbed, breathing shallowly. Jim was still imprisoned in Molly's water, but now his face was burning with rage.   
  
Sherlock ignored him. He spared a glance at Mycroft, saw him run a trembling hand over his features before nodding, then Sherlock stood on strong legs, took a full breath with healthy lungs, and ran.   
  
John's fingers were clamped tightly around the gun. Sherlock gently prized them off, switched the safety on, and set the gun aside. He took John's empty hand in his, laced their fingers together.   
  
~~~   
  
'Sherlock.' John breathed, raised his left hand to twine in Sherlock's hair.   
  
'Hi.' Sherlock smiled. He looked good, perfect. Healthy.   
  
Alive.   
  
'What…what happened?'   
  
'John, you shouldn't--' Mike began, but Sherlock shushed him.   
  
'You did it. It's over. I'm free.'   
  
John frowned. 'I don't--'   
  
'It doesn't matter.' Sherlock whispered. 'Not right now.' He brought John's hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. 'Thank you.'   
  
John managed a small smile. 'I…always keep my promises.' He dropped his hand, unable to hold it up any longer.   
  
'Yes.' Sherlock stroked John's cheek. 'You do.'   
  
'Sherlock.' Greg said in a low voice. 'I feel…'   
  
'I know.'   
  
'Empty.'   
  
Sherlock paused. His hand moved of its own accord to hover alongside his head. Tentatively, gingerly, he pressed his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes. He felt nothing. Like a gaping chasm. He couldn't feel anyone else, not Greg, not--   
  
'Molly!' Greg gasped and scrambled to his feet, running to the lake.   
  
Sherlock turned his head to follow, eyes fixed anxiously on the water holding Jim captive.   
  
John grunted, and Sherlock's head whipped round to check him. The strips of Mike's shirt were stained a deep red, but it wasn't spreading. Even so, John's face was pale, lines of tension etched across his brow.   
  
'I'm here, John.' He whispered, clutching John's hand tight. 'I'm not leaving.'   
  
Mycroft slid in behind John and sat back on his heels, lifting John's head to rest atop his knees, smoothing the short hair on John's forehead. 'He needs a hospital, Sherlock.'   
  
Sherlock looked up at Mike, who nodded, and then over to the lake where Jim was sagging in the watery restraints and Molly was just starting to form.   
  
'A little longer.' He whispered. 'Give her time.'   
  
When he looked down again, John's eyes had rolled back in his head so only the whites were showing. Sherlock bit his lip and gently slid John's eyelids closed, not even trying to hide how violently his hands shook as he did it. He listened to the ragged sound of John's breathing, and willed it to drown out the emptiness inside of his own mind.   
  
~~~   
  
She'd lost them. Both of them. It ached, down in the deep water where nothing touched her, the loss of them hurt. She couldn't cry. She didn't have eyes. She couldn't scream, she had no throat. She could only hurt, and hurt deeply.   
  
She could feel strength flowing into her, sharp and hot and somehow bitter. She felt something reaching out, gripping tight on whatever was feeding her, but she couldn't control it.   
  
She'd lost Greg first. Her line to him, grown strong and thick and potent over two long years, snapped like an elastic band, lashing back at her like the bite of a whip. She tried to recoil from it, but the pain permeated whatever it was that made up her Self in this dark, cold place. It was so unlike the others, Jim's idle playthings. Their bonds had been formed from flimsy spider silk and broken soon after, drifting apart like candy floss in water. She'd barely noticed the loss of them. But losing Greg, she reckoned she knew now how it felt to die.   
  
And Sherlock next, his bond so much weaker but strong in itself. It had been like having something yanked from somewhere near her belly. She felt like she was bleeding, and maybe she was. She loved him, she knew that much. And so he ripped her apart.   
  
And she was alone now, again. Abandoned to her own empty thoughts and echoing loneliness in the dark and cold of the deep water. The blackness was closing in on her, the cold seeping into the memory of her bones.   
  
But the strength was still coming, still pouring into her, and she felt herself rising involuntarily to the surface, felt her body gathering itself around her, her shortened hair, that hateful blue dress that had been Jim's first and only 'gift', hands and feet and face and skin, made of water and something other, but not real. An echo of a body she no longer possessed.   
  
When she opened her counterfeit eyes, she was holding Jim, and he was fading away. Greg was nearby, hovering at the edge of her boundary but not crossing it. He was almost close enough to touch and yet she couldn't find him.   
  
Sherlock was further away, close to the forest, and she mourned his loss because she'd give just about anything to feel the love that must have been pouring off him as he held John like that. She reached for him, and emptiness answered back.   
  
'Do it, then.' Jim said, startling her out of her head. 'Kill me.'   
  
She faltered. It hadn't crossed her mind, but…yes. She had him, here in the water where he'd never gone. She'd broken his power, she had him trapped, she could end him here and now. She could make this Lake his tomb, rid the world of him.   
  
'Molly…' Greg's voice sounded lost and confused, and she wanted him back, wanted to feel his pain with him and sooth it away.   
  
'I should.' She said. She looked at Sherlock, saw his back bowed over John's motionless body. Was he hurting, too? Did he miss her like she missed him? Was the emptiness clawing at his heart and twisting his insides like it was in her?   
  
She looked at Greg, and didn't even need to ask.   
  
'I should kill you now.' She said. 'It would be fair. It'd probably be heroic. It's no more than you deserve.'   
  
Jim smirked, but the expression was clumsy and his head was starting to loll. His legs had buckled, and the only thing keeping him upright was the grip the Lake had on his arms. 'Then what's keeping you? I haven't got all night.' He nodded to the horizon, where the sky was just starting to pale.   
  
Sherlock's first sunrise as a free man, she thought. And she smiled.   
  
'You've lost, you know.' She said. 'And that's enough. I promised myself I'd never let you change me, Jim. You took my body and you made it into a toy, but that's just my body. I never let you have  _me_ . And I won't start now. I'm not a killer. I won't let you turn me into one.'   
  
She raised her hand, and she dissolved the water tendrils holding him. She just caught the look of terror on his face before he crashed into the water.   
  
A second later, she did, too.   
  
They sank far deeper than should have been possible. Molly struggled to swim, unused to solidity below the surface, unsure of her limbs and her weight, and she found she couldn't  _breathe_ .   
  
Jim faced her, thrashing in the water, his face terrified. She felt something then, like currents, flowing out of her body. Jim jerked and spasmed, fighting something she couldn't see, something from within her.   
  
Then she could see it. It glowed, bright and golden like the sun she captured in Sherlock's wave. It pierced Jim like swords, pinning him motionless in the darkness surrounding them. As it filled him, his skin began to ripple and shift, and his body wavered. The light swallowed him, and he drifted apart, joining the water.   
  
Molly gasped, and found herself in the shallows, coughing up water, her clothes and hair waterlogged and heavy. Greg was beside her, pulling her to him, dragging her forward until there was solid, dry ground under her bare feet, scratching and digging at new skin and the sensation, the weight and roughness of it, made her cry out.   
  
In an instant, Greg's arms were around her, lifting her up and off the ground, and she looked back to see the Lake, grey and cold and lifeless, stretched out behind her, separate for the first time in six years.   
  
She brought her hand up to wipe the water from her eyes, and felt something solid and cool against her palm. She looked, and saw an oval of white gold, etched with the silhouette of a swan, glinting in the first rays of the morning sun.   
  
~~~   
  
Sherlock watched Molly and Greg's approach as though entranced. Greg's footfalls were heavy, uneven, Molly cradled in his arms like a bride, dripping water from her hair and her fingers and the hems of her skirt and her bare feet. Greg had barely made it to the small group surrounding John before his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the ground, lowering Molly as gently as he could. She winced at each movement, as though the slightest graze of rough earth and stone on her skin hurt her.   
  
She looked at him, shivering and disorientated, and raised a hand. John's necklace lay nestled in her palm, the chain bobbing and swaying as Molly's hand trembled. Sherlock bowed his head, and Molly fumblingly slipped the chain around his neck. He helped her fasten the clasp, then lowered his head further and kissed her damp forehead, feeling the full force of her shivering through his lips.   
  
'I miss you.' She whispered. He nodded, and above them Greg drew a shuddering breath.   
  
'Jim?' Sherlock asked. He squeezed John's hand more tightly.   
  
She shook her head. 'I don't know. I think…he took my place.'   
  
Sherlock looked down at John, waited to see the steady rise and fall of his chest. The sound of John's exhale was like a balm, soothing the jagged edges inside of him that had formed where Molly and Greg used to be.   
  
'We can go now.' He said. He watched the horizon, the sunrise he couldn't feel. He looked at his hand, still expecting a patina of feathers to appear on his skin. His hand remained a hand.   
  
'It's over.'


	20. Chapter Twenty

He spotted her before she spotted him. He stilled his pacing and for a frozen instant they just looked at each other, scarcely willing to breathe for fear they would shatter this fragile reality. Then the moment snapped, and Sherlock was rushing forward and Vienne was opening her arms and they crashed together, shattering and mending at the same time in one another's grasp.   
  
'Sherlock!' She cried, pressing him as close as she could, forcing words through her tears, peppering his face with kisses.  _'Mon bébé…ah mon bébé chéri_ !'   
  
Sherlock buried his nose in her hair, gripped her tight about the shoulders and waist. ' _Maman_ .' He wept. ' _Je suis désolé, je suis si désolé_ .' He pulled away just far enough to press their foreheads together, bracketing her face with his hands. 'I'm sorry.'   
  
She shook her head, covered his hands with her own. ' _Non, petit_ . Don't apologise. You're here. That's all that matters.' She pulled away and brushed the tears from his cheeks, chasing each one with a kiss. 'But where is your brother? What's this about John? What's happened?'   
  
Sherlock tensed and he shrank away. 'He…the doctors…they had questions.' His throat was closing around his voice, and he had to force himself to say, 'They won't tell me anything. Just that he's still in surgery.'   
  
'Sherlock, my love. What happened to him?' Vienne asked as she guided her son to one of the uncomfortable chairs lined along the wall.   
  
'He--he was shot.' Sherlock choked. 'When he came for me. His shoulder. It--it was his shoulder.'   
  
'Oh, God.' Vienne breathed. 'Is he--'   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'I don't know. He was…he was unconscious by the time we got here. Mycroft is trying--but they aren't  _saying anything_ .'   
  
She shushed him and pulled him to her breast. 'There now,' she said. 'Ann and Harry are coming, the doctors will speak to them. I'm sure he'll be alright.   
  
'Mother, I…'   
  
But Vienne shook her head. 'No, Sherlock. Not now. Give me this one moment before I have to think about…all of this.'   
  
'Mummy…' They both turned at the sound of Mycroft's voice. He'd aged fifteen years in the last hour. He looked exhausted, his face ashen, his lips pale. They stood, and he began to walk toward them. He just made it to his mother and his brother before his knees sagged and he had to lean on them for support.   
  
'What did they say?' Sherlock breathed.   
  
Mycroft shook his head. 'Too little. He's still in surgery, he's alive. They just don't know yet.'   
He looked up at his brother with eyes wider and more frightened than Sherlock had ever seen. 'Sherlock, if they suspect--he bled so little. If they notice,' He shook his head. 'I don't know how much I can cover up.'   
  
'What do you mean? What's happening?' Vienne asked, but Mycroft shook his head again.   
  
'Stay with Sherlock, mother. I have to go. There's--there's so much to be done. The police, my superiors.' He rubbed his temple. 'And I need to speak to your companions, Sherlock.'   
  
He moved to leave, but Sherlock shot out his hand to stop him. 'Are they--what will happen to them?'   
  
Mycroft shook his head and tried to move away again.   
  
Sherlock tugged him back. 'You can't be hasty with this, Mycroft.' He insisted. 'They've got nothing,  _he's_ got absolutely nothing, and don't forget it's been  _six years_  since--'   
  
'Sherlock, enough!' Mycroft snapped. He took a breath and prized his brother's hand from his arm. 'I will, see to it.' Sherlock opened his mouth but Mycroft held up a hand. 'No, Sherlock. I will see to it. Don't ask me how because I've not the slightest idea, but I will ensure your friends are cared for. Please, Sherlock. Trust me.'   
  
'Friends?' Vienne asked, reclaiming Sherlock's attention. Her eyes were shining and wide. 'Your friends?'   
  
Implications cascaded through his mind, and he found himself nodding dumbly. 'They were,' he cleared his throat. 'We were…kept. Together. They…helped me.'   
  
Vienne's mouth moved into something which, in any other setting, would have been a smile. Here in the hospital, however, it was still mostly tears. 'Oh,  _petit_ .' She pulled him tightly into her arms and he lost himself in the warmth of her. She smelled like home.   
  
What came next sounded even more like home.   
  
'You unbelievable tosser!'   
  
He barely had time to glimpse the golden blonde hair flying like a pennant, the smart pinstripe suit, the angry set to the cherry-red lips, before Harry's arms were wrapped around him in a vice-like hold and he was struggling to breathe. A moment later and she'd pushed him back, glaring into his face. 'What the  _hell_ happened last night?' She demanded. Sherlock opened his mouth but Harry cut him off. 'No! Shut up!' And the vice was back as she hugged hard enough to add to his collection of bruises.   
  
Gentle, work-scarred hands slipped between them. Harry softened and stepped back.   
  
Ann moved in front of him, holding him at arm's length as she looked him up and down. He became hyper aware of the blood and grime coating his once white shirt, a shirt she'd bought for him during a compulsory shopping trip memorable mostly for how she'd interrogated him about her son and their plans together. He was aware of his bruises, his cuts, his rat's nest of hair, and he wanted to hide from her. She wouldn't let him.   
  
She didn't say anything, and neither did he. The spectre of John hovered between them, cradled in the space between Ann's arms, and it was Ann who dared press through it, and for the third time in the last half-hour he was pulled into a hug so tight it hurt.   
  
He began to weep, his shoulders heaving in apology for what he'd caused, for everything that had happened to their family since he was taken, for not seeing John for who he was until it was too late, for everything he couldn't articulate as her hand soothed along the stark lines of his shoulder blades, the grooves of his spine. She didn't shush him, she didn't make any sound at all, but she held him and let him bleed sorrow as she had always done.   
  
'Mrs Ann Watson?' Called a voice behind them. Ann pulled away just enough that Sherlock could lean against her shoulder.   
  
'I'm Ann Watson.' She said. Vienne came up beside her and took the hand not wrapped around Sherlock's waist, clutching it tight. Harry wrapped her arm around her mother's waist, the other holding firmly to Vienne's free hand.   
  
The surgeon had pulled down her mask so that it hung loosely about her neck and she was carrying a small packet of papers. There was blood on her scrubs. She was smiling. 'John is going to be just fine.'   
  
Ann sobbed in relief as Harry grinned and tucked her face into the crook of her mother's neck. Vienne freed one hand and held Sherlock's arm, beaming. Sherlock stood numb, unsure how to react, afraid to move as the world righted itself under his feet.   
  
'It's incredible, actually.' The surgeon went on. 'I've never seen a bullet wound so clean. No shattering, no damaged arteries. It's as close to a best-case scenario as you can get with gunshots.'   
  
'When can we see him?' Ann asked, her voice slightly too steady.   
  
'He's still under from the anaesthesia.' The surgeon replied. 'He should wake up in anywhere from ten to thirty minutes. Someone will be by to fetch you.'   
  
'How many of us?' Harry asked in a slightly sharpened tone.   
  
'And you're…' She checked her papers. 'Harriet Watson, yes?'   
  
Harry nodded. She looked about to speak up again, but the surgeon beat her to it.   
  
'Just one at a time for now. He'll be groggy from the anaesthetic.' Her eyes turned to Sherlock, though he hadn't said anything. In fact, he'd hardly moved from the moment she'd walked into the waiting room. Perhaps she'd just been doing this for a long time, because when she spoke, it was directly to him. 'He is going to be just fine.'   
  
~~~   
  
It took just about all John had to blink his eyes open, and when he did, the blurry shape in front of him resolved into a mop of curly brown hair, a pale face, and glacier eyes.   
  
He frowned. 'You were Harry a second ago.'   
  
Sherlock smiled tightly. 'Does it hurt?'   
  
John shook his head. 'Th' stuff. 's good. Gave me a button.' He brandished the morphine control with a vague smile.   
  
Sherlock scoffed. 'You're high.'   
  
'Yep. God you're beautiful.'   
  
Sherlock's face fell. He looked away. 'This is all wrong, isn't it? It shouldn't have ended like this.'   
  
John shifted slightly, keeping weight off of his left shoulder. Even with morphine the pain was hovering just beyond his perceptions and he didn't want to have to push the button again while he was trying to talk. 'Who said it was over?'   
  
'But--I'm free, you did it. Greg and Molly are finally out of the lake and you and I--'   
  
'Yeah, all that, but listen.' He fumbled for Sherlock's hand. 'All of that…shit, it was all leading up to this. This is where it starts. And, sure, it may be a crap beginning in some ways, but we're both here. See?' He held up their joined hands. 'Touching and everything.'   
  
'I want to kiss you.'   
  
'I'm not stopping you.'   
  
'I don't want to hurt you.'   
  
John snorted, even giggled a bit. 'Come on, love. This is nothing. We've both suffered worse for less.'   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'I should've said yes that night. I should've taken you upstairs and refused to let you go in the morning.'   
  
John sighed. 'You couldn't have stopped me. I honestly don't think I could've stopped him.' He didn't, and that hurt, deeper than the morphine could touch. 'He would've come for you, Sherlock. At least this way I stood a better chance of getting you back.'   
  
Sherlock leaned over then, cupped John's cheek in one smooth hand and kissed him. The sensation was fuzzy through the drugs, but still sweet. Hungerless, like their first, a kiss content in itself.   
  
'Lie down with me.' John whispered once their lips had parted.   
  
Sherlock's eyes widened. 'John…we can't--'   
  
'Idiot.' John chided. 'I just want you to lie down. Can't hold you like this.'   
  
Sherlock smirked and, moving with that still surprising grace of his, carefully manoeuvred his body over and across John's until he could nestle between John's right side and the railing of the bed. With care, a bit of cursing, and no little help from Sherlock, John managed to turn over onto his right so he could meet Sherlock's eyes as they shared the pillow.   
  
'Would be my left arm.' John groused. 'Typical.'   
  
'Mm, serves you right for being abnormal. That's my job.'   
  
'Oh, blatant right-handed bias.' John scolded him. 'Not enough the whole world is designed for you, you've got to trod on the rest of us poor sods.'   
  
Sherlock laughed, and John spared a moment to just listen to it.   
  
'I love you.' He'd probably never admit it out loud, but he quite liked it when the words came out on their own like that, surprising them both.   
  
Sherlock smiled and snuggled in closer. 'Tell me about our flat.'   
  
John blinked. 'You know about that?'   
  
Sherlock nodded. 'Greg told me.'   
  
John tamped down the now-familiar surge of anger he felt whenever he thought of Lestrade and forced himself to ask, 'How is he?'   
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'I don't know.' The words seemed to pain him more than usual, and John didn't have to guess why.   
  
'Molly?'   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his face away. 'They're gone. Both of them, the moment you freed me. I haven't seen them since we got here.'   
  
'Molly's free?' John asked. 'I don't remember much past taking the shot.'   
  
Sherlock nodded.   
  
'How?'   
  
Sherlock smirked. 'She showed Jim mercy.' He let out a harsh laugh. 'I would've killed him, right there. Not her. She let him go, and the lake took him in her place.'   
  
John let out a low whistle. 'Poetic.'   
  
'The Old Man was an artist, it seems. I regret I never got to see him work.'   
  
'He did kidnap and imprison a thirteen year old girl, Sherlock.' John chided. 'And corrupted Moriarty into…whatever it is he became.'   
  
'Jim didn't need any help there.' Sherlock said. 'I know he was a bad person, John, that doesn't change how impressive his skills were. He let Jim choose his own demise, trapped him with his own source of power. That's gorgeous.'   
  
'Sick, though.'   
  
'Yes. But look at Smallpox under a microscope and it looks like something Van Gogh would have painted.' Sherlock pointed out. 'Sick and beautiful don't always have to cancel one another out.' He focussed his gaze on John, locked their eyes together. 'Not if you look closely enough.'   
  
John forced a smile. 'You're going to save the world with thinking like that.' He said, then he closed his eyes long enough to find the words he had to say. 'I killed people, Sherlock.'   
  
'Yes.'   
  
'I don't regret it. I'm…glad. It feels right.'   
  
'Yes.'   
  
'Where's the beauty in that?'   
  
'It's gone eleven in the morning.' Sherlock said.   
  
'What?' John whispered.   
  
'The sun rose hours ago. I was holding your hand as I watched it. I am still holding your hand. I am looking into your eyes, I am speaking to you with words you can hear, I am lying here, beside you, and I am me.' He pressed a kiss to the corner of John's mouth. 'I can think of nothing more beautiful than that.'   
  
John let that sink in for a moment, and then he found he was kissing Sherlock breathless, which seemed the best way to respond.   
  
Sherlock was beaming at him when they separated. 'Now, about this flat of ours…'   
  
~~~   
  
When Sherlock woke, the light from the window had gone dim. John was pressed tightly against him, sleeping the sleep of the fastidiously drugged, and someone was standing in the doorway.   
  
'Visiting hours are over.' Sherlock yawned, blinking the sleep from his eyes.   
  
'I am aware.' The voice froze him, and he paused to let his vision focus and adjust to the backlighting.   
  
'Father.'   
  
Basil Holmes stepped into the room. He was tall, of a height with Mycroft, so Sherlock had to look up to meet his eyes. His hair was so dark as to be nearly black, like Sherlock's, but straight and meticulously combed and ordered, and his nose was sharp and aquiline like Mycroft's, where Sherlock's was a bit snubbed like his mother's. He was carrying a cane, but not using it. It wasn't entirely decorative, though. Sherlock had seen him use it on steep stairways and hills several times.   
  
'He will make a full recovery.' Basil observed, without so much as a glance at John's prognosis chart.   
  
'Yes.' Sherlock could almost fool himself into thinking he'd kept his voice low for John's sake.   
  
'Mycroft has informed me of your predicament these last few months.' Basil went on. 'It is…impressive, in hindsight, to see all he has done when one knows what he was to face.'   
  
'Why are you here?'   
  
Basil lowered his eyes at that, and rested the cane on the lino at his feet. 'Because I am the sort of fool who arrives at his destination too late to serve his purpose, and thinks himself punctual. I am here as I should have been, and never was.'   
  
'You're a busy man, you can't--'   
  
'Wrong, but dutiful, my boy.' Basil lamented. 'A man has family, has ties to the world he cannot loose, even should he wish to. I have striven for years to be something other than a man, and I have found myself cold. For when a man ceases to be a man he has generally become a corpse. Though it is true I was a frightfully busy one.'   
  
'You didn't damage me.' Sherlock told him. 'I'm told I’m terribly well adjusted in spite of myself.'   
  
Basil nodded. 'Yes, Dr Langtree, I'd imagine. Such an annoyance when soft science practitioners prove themselves capable.' He swivelled his cane a bit. 'But, alas, I remain incurably selfish. The damage is all mine, I'm afraid, and it seems I cannot ignore its symptoms.'   
  
He paused, looked up. 'I lost you, four months ago. I found in your absence a silence I no longer relished, a solitude from which I could take no comfort. I found myself envisioning a world without your brother, or that meddling Watson woman with that annoying tendency to be right all the time. And that could only lead to thoughts of a life without your mother in it, and I found that unendurable.' He started to smile, but never quite finished. 'And I remembered the moment I fell in love with her. I do love her, you may be pleased to know. And I remembered the night of your party, and seeing you kiss a boy I thought you hated, and I realised in that moment that you had become a man, a whole one, while my back was turned.   
  
'I…failed to observe so much. I am getting older, son. I have lost so much that I can never regain, and I will die with far less than I was entitled to. It galls a man, Sherlock, to wake up in the morning and find himself victim of his own stupidity. You see, genius, my boy, is a disease which seeks to eradicate its own cure. It feeds on itself, and blots out reason. I let myself be consumed by it, and now it is too late. And yet I persist in making my volleys into deserted camps.'   
  
'The flat.' It was strange to Sherlock to speak so little, almost as strange as it was to hear his father say so much.   
  
'Too little, far too late. At least I proved useful in reclaiming you.'   
  
'You saved my life.'   
  
'That man, there,' He pointed his cane at John, still blissfully medicated into oblivion. 'Saved your life. I merely handed him the sword.'   
  
'We could never have done any of it without you.' Sherlock insisted.   
  
'Perhaps not.' Basil conceded. 'And perhaps if I had taken notice of your obsession with that dead boy you would not have had to.'   
  
'Father,'   
  
'Your room is waiting for you at the house. You may stay as long as you like, until you and John are ready for whatever comes next. The flat will remain available to you, should you wish for it. And,' He stepped back through the doorway for a moment and leaned over to where Sherlock knew a chair sat against the wall. He returned with a stack of clothing in his hands. 'Young Miss Watson insisted I give you these.'   
  
It was only John's body in the way that kept Sherlock from falling upon the clothing like a starving man on a steak. When the fabric was in his hands he may have cried a little. He wasn't sure. He felt a bizarre urge to cuddle the stack to his chest like a soft toy. He settled for bringing the soft material close to his face, inhaling the scents of home.   
  
'Thank you, and her, of course.'   
  
Basil nodded. 'Of course. I'll leave the pair of you to rest.' He turned to go.   
  
'Father.'   
  
Basil halted and looked over his shoulder.   
  
'For…everything. Thank you.'   
  
It was a small smile, but genuine, if a bit sad. And with it, Basil left his son to watch over John in the dark and the quiet of healing.   
  
~~~   
  
'So you're the Eyes of Britain, then?'   
  
Mycroft folded his hands on the table between them. 'I do have rather unprecedented access to the CCTV network, if that is your meaning.'   
  
Greg snorted. 'Should've seen that. John said as much, before. I mean, I wasn't there or anything but Sherlock showed me.' He tapped his head. He felt shaky, like his bones were rattling about under his skin. The gaping chasm in his head was deeper and wider than ever before, endless, really.   
  
'Police Constable--' Mycroft began, but Greg stopped him.   
  
'I'm not.'   
  
'Sorry?'   
  
'A PC. And you never used my old rank before, always "mister". You were right. I haven't been a copper in two years, and it's not like the Met's been saving a spot for me, is it?'   
  
'Very well, Mr Lestrade, we must--'   
  
'Sorry, no chance of a fag, is there? It's just…I could really use a cigarette just now.'   
  
Mycroft frowned. 'I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, if we could--'   
  
'Where is she?' There was a note of pleading in his voice, he hardly cared. 'Just…just where is she? 'Cause she's alone and, you know she doesn't say it but she's scared and…where is she?'   
  
Mycroft sighed, but his face softened. 'Miss Hooper is in the care of some of my most trusted associates. Her medical check is so far exemplary, and she is undergoing the first steps to reintroduction.'   
  
'To what?'   
  
Mycroft met his eye, then he pulled a clipboard over to him from the corner of the little table in their over-lit little consultation room. 'Reintroduction. To society, Mr Lestrade. Miss Hooper has been isolated for quite some time, it is best to reacquaint her with the outside world gradually. It is feared that too much stimuli would overwhelm her and hinder her recovery.'   
  
'But she's okay?'   
  
Mycroft set down the clipboard and pushed it over to Greg. 'She appears indomitable.'   
  
Greg looked at the papers, the contents of Molly's body and mind written out across standardised forms. 'Damn right she is.' He looked up to Mycroft. 'What about your brother?'   
  
'He's with John.' Mycroft said, with finality, as though that said all that needed saying. It probably did. 'May I ask why you're so diligently avoiding the subject of your own situation?'   
  
'Cos I'm scared.' Greg said with a shrug. 'It's been two years of waiting and worrying and now it's all in my lap and _you_ put it there.' He said with a point to Mycroft. 'And now you're just…just sitting there. Talking to me like you didn't just hand me my freedom on a silver bloody plate and expecting me to deal with things and I--I can't.'   
  
'At the time I had no idea what I was doing.' Mycroft told him, and some of his stiffness fell away. 'What I did, and it's still difficult to believe I did anything, was done entirely in ignorance and with minimal peril to myself. You, on the other hand, embarked on your every heroism with eyes wide open and your life on the line. Which of us is the more deserving?'   
  
'It doesn't work like that.'   
  
'Why shouldn't it?'   
  
Greg sighed and folded his arms on the table, resting his chin on his sleeve. 'Can you make me a cop again?'   
  
'I can help you reclaim your position, yes.'   
  
'Why?'   
  
Mycroft blinked. 'What?'   
  
'I mean, are you doing this as part of some official directive or is this more of that shite about rewarding me for not acting like a complete dick and leaving your brother to rot at the lake?'   
  
Mycroft fiddled a bit with a ring on his right hand. When he spoke, his voice was a bit distant. 'When we were children, very young, Sherlock often resented the measures I took to protect him. He was born far too soon, you see. The beginning of a life intimately interwoven with death.' He smiled sadly, his eyes still on the featureless ring as he twisted it round and round his finger. 'When I was twelve, the Watsons came to stay with us for the first time, and I found in Harriet an indulgent damsel to my white knight compulsions. It didn't put me off hovering over my brother, but it did divide my focus enough to let him breathe. Probably saved our relationship, in hindsight.'   
  
He looked up, and he was still smiling that tight smile. 'All of my life, Mr Lestrade, I have felt the need to keep him safe, to protect him from any harm, even himself if it came to it. Several months ago, I failed.' He took a breath, it sounded like it hurt. 'I am a resourceful man, Mr Lestrade. And I am rapidly becoming a powerful one. But that day, I was forced to face the reality that I cannot protect him from everything. Soon he will move to London, a city which has become my home, and I will watch over him and John as best I can, but…I need help.   
  
'You risked your life to save his. You put yourself in peril time and again to keep him from harm. You worked yourself to exhaustion securing his freedom with no guarantee of your own.' He met Greg's eyes then, unwavering. 'A man like that, a man who would do so much for a relative stranger, that is precisely the man I want protecting my city.'   
  
Greg took a moment to let all of that sink in. When he'd had a chance to sort through it all, he looked up, and extended his hand.   
  
'My name's Gregory.' He said. 'You can call me Greg if you like.'   
  
~~~   
  
The hospital room had a shower. Sherlock had long ago grown accustomed to the privileges of wealth, private hospital rooms being merely one of them, but just now he felt he could fall to his knees and capitulate to the gods of conspicuous consumption, that he could experience  _this_ and still have John resting twenty feet away.   
  
The water was hot, enough to pink his skin. For the first long moments after stepping under the spray Sherlock sagged against the plain white wall and let the heat sluice over him, coating his skin, drenching his hair, until he was possibly wetter even than when he'd been submerged in the lake.   
  
He felt his muscles soften under the onslaught of heat, his legs going slack, and he lowered himself to his knees on the floor of the shower, resting his elbows on the seat provided for patients who couldn't stand, and let the water wash away.   
  
He closed his eyes and listened to the hushed roar that was this water's only voice, marvelled that he had no connection to it, even as it seeped into his skin. He was loathe to move, only the prospect of John's warm, solid skin under his fingers enticing enough to bring him to his feet and make him take up the bottle of aggressively bland shampoo.   
  
And this!  _Soap_ ! His skin tingled where the chemicals touched, his scalp all but twitching as he worked the gel into a lather. He couldn't say how long he stood there, just rubbing the foam through his hair, feeling dirt and grease and oil and grit sloughing off onto his hands, then down, down to the slick floor to be washed away, remnants of his prison swept out and forgotten.   
  
Applying the bar of soap to his skin was nearly orgasmic. He honestly hadn't realised quite how much of his darkened skin tone was simply caked-on dirt. If anything he was even paler after months of never seeing the sun without a barrier of feathers. He scraped off one layer of grime from his forearm and actually whimpered. He felt like a reptile, shedding an ill-fitting skin.   
  
He saved the conditioner for last, which was probably wise, because the sensation of running his fingers through softened, smooth hair as the water cascaded over his body was entirely too much and he had to sit on the bench, breathing heavily, clutching at his biceps until he could convince himself he wouldn't wake, that the heat and the comfort and the  _clean_ were all real, that the world which supplied them would not vanish should he open his eyes.   
  
When he turned off the water, steam hung around him like a fog. Stepping out of the shower, the mist seemed even thicker, both the mirror and small window utterly obscured with a thick coating of condensation.   
  
Sherlock felt his arm and hand respond to months-neglected muscle memory, rising to wipe a large stripe through the fogged glass and reveal for the first time in a very long time, his reflection.   
  
His hair was longer, hanging in heavy, dripping curls to the hinge of his jaw, the very back falling very nearly to his C4 vertebrae. His skin was sallow, almost grey, his face gaunt. He looked unhealthy, but his eyes were bright. He'd recover.   
  
'You're gorgeous.'   
  
Sherlock whipped round, stumbling backward and groping blindly for a towel to cover himself. John stood impassively in the doorway with his left arm in a sling, smirking. 'You'll need to start shaving daily soon.'   
  
Sherlock got hold of the papery, rough textured towel and jerked it around his waist. 'You shouldn't be up.' He scolded. 'Much less sneaking about.'   
  
'I woke up and you weren't there.' John said, as blankly as he might say, 'There are clouds covering the stars tonight' or 'telly predicted rain today'. It was a fact, vaguely lamentable, but unarguable.   
  
'I was coming back.' Sherlock insisted. 'I just had to--' he gestured feebly at the shower.   
  
'No, I know you were.' John said, his voice trailing. 'If I had to drag you, you were coming back. But I thought I'd come to you instead. You don't need to cover yourself from me.' He nodded at the towel.   
  
'How's the pain?'   
  
John shrugged with his right shoulder. 'Painful.'   
  
Sherlock tilted his head. 'Are you all right.'   
  
John looked off into the distance and was silent for a moment. Then, 'No. I'm not. I need you to touch me.'   
  
Sherlock was moving before John had even finished speaking, stepping close and bracketing John's face with his hands. 'I'm here.' He breathed. 'I'm here, I love you so much, I'm right here.'   
  
John raised his right hand to cover Sherlock's. 'Just…just stay, okay? Just stay with me.'   
  
'Always.'   
  
'Grow old, Sherlock.' John commanded. 'You owe me that much. Promise me you'll go grey and wrinkled and start walking with a hunch and you'll die a liver-spotted old man in your sleep.'   
  
'Only if you're there with me.'   
  
John looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. 'Always.'   
  
~~~   
  
John was, for once, grateful that the world revolved around the right-handed. No one accidentally tried to offer him a left-handed handshake or extended their left hand to help him out of a car. He was used to a certain amount of ambidexterity, even preferred his right hand for shooting, so it wasn't such a terrible inconvenience to have his dominant arm trapped in a sling.   
  
So he automatically leaned his right shoulder against the doorframe of Sherlock's room as he watched his lover rediscover his old sanctuary.   
  
Sherlock moved cautiously, like an archaeologist exploring a newly unearthed palace. His hands ran over everything, gentle as a whisper. He deftly handled what remained of his on-going experiments, spared a moment to boot up his computer, though he didn't do anything with it once it was on, and stroked each individual spine of each book.   
  
He came to the tiny shelf of comic books and paused, hand poised to touch.   
  
'You've been reading my Gaimans.' He said.   
  
John ducked his head. 'Couldn't sleep.'   
  
'You don't like Neil Gaiman.' Sherlock pointed out. 'You said he was too distant from his characters, and he didn't explain things properly.'   
  
John waggled his head noncommittally. 'I don't  _dislike_ him. And you love him, so…'   
  
'I admire his detachment and unflinching detail.' Sherlock corrected. 'He turns abnormality into poetry.'   
  
'You're beautiful enough on your own, love.' John told him.   
  
Sherlock turned a full 360 degrees, his eyes scanning every inch as though he'd never seen any of it before. He came to a stop, his body preternaturally still. After a moment he shook his head and let out a long breath. He collapsed onto his bed with enough force to bounce the springs and flopped backward, his arms spread-eagled, and closed his eyes.   
  
'Anything I can help you with?' John asked, unashamedly raking his eyes over every taught and inviting line of Sherlock's splayed body.   
  
'What happens now?'   
  
John lowered his head and shrugged. 'To be honest, Sherlock…I don't know. I always sort of skipped ahead to the marathon sex and waking up together part.'   
  
'I scarcely dared imagine anything.' Sherlock said. 'Mm, I could make such a nest of this.' His fingers splayed out and stroked the duvet luxuriously.   
  
'Is that what we did it on? Your nest?'   
  
Sherlock shrugged. 'I usually slept on the water. But sometimes the weather made changing at night impossible so I'd move to the shelter with--' He cut off, and John pretended not to notice. Sherlock cleared his throat. 'Nesting was a natural instinct. Helpful during storms.'   
  
Taking that as his cue, whether it was or not, John flopped down on the bed beside him and, mindful of his bad arm, pulled Sherlock to him as best he could. 'You will  _never_ have to endure those storms again.' He murmured. He dropped a kiss onto Sherlock's nose. 'No more nests.'   
  
Sherlock smiled. 'Sleep with me tonight?'   
  
'With you or beside you?' John teased. 'Best to define your parameters clearly, my love.'   
  
Sherlock snorted. 'Beside me, you git. You were my first, I hardly trust myself not to hurt you in my inept bumbling.'   
  
'Hey, you did very well for a first time. I've got no complaints.'   
  
Sherlock shoved him gently, grinning. 'Please, I was horrid. Even I know elbows are meant to keep themselves on the periphery of sex.'   
  
John giggled. 'For your information, you have remarkably sexy elbows.'   
  
'Psh. You think everything on me is sexy.'   
  
John shrugged. 'Can't fault my eyesight.'   
  
Sherlock turned fever-bright eyes to him, and John's pulse kicked up another gear. 'Kiss me.' Sherlock commanded.   
  
'Well, if you insist.'   
  
'Oh, I do. Emphatically.'   
  
~~~   
  
John was a sweet oblivion, one Sherlock could cheerfully lose himself in for the rest of his life. But John was still human, and so like all the rest of the household, John needed to sleep.   
  
Sherlock did, too. His day had consisted mostly of John's arms and John's lips and John's heat, but it had also contained a large portion of Mycroft's papers,  _maman's_ tears, Harry's dazed questions, Ann's fussing, and Basil's contrition. It was enough to wear him down to bone slivers.   
  
Even so, he couldn't sleep. He and John had been the last to retire, dallying in the sitting room even after Mycroft had stumbled his way, blinking and yawning, upstairs to his room.   
  
It had begun so perfectly, the trials and pressures of the day weighing heavily on his eyelids, John's hand pulling him to his feet, coaxing him along to the bed they would share. The first bed they would ever share. The night trailed into kisses, lazy caresses, a crisis of shuddering and panting into each other's mouths, a short break to tidy up, and then Sherlock had slipped into silk pyjamas and slid between the covers with John, hot and solid, curled against him.   
  
Heaven. Soft, gossamer fabrics stroking his skin; post-orgasmic lassitude loosening his joints; his body sinking ever deeper into the soft, rosy light of contentment. He wrapped himself around John, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to come.   
  
Sleep never came.   
  
There was no clock in Sherlock's room save the digital one by his bed, but there was a grandfather clock in the hall outside his door, and it ticked like a hammer pounding on Sherlock's skull. The waxing moon, silver-white and piercing, shone through his window and bathed his skin in a light he could no longer feel, though he almost imagined he could.   
  
Sleep remained beyond his reach.   
  
A phantom scent, like leather and dust, filled his nose for a moment, then fled, leaving him bereft and searching. The ghostly sound of lapping water played at the shell of his ear before it, too, vanished back into memory. And despite the duvet and John's skin so close, he began to shiver into the darkness.   
  
He tried not to toss and turn, still mindful of John's injured arm, but his body was growing tight and tingling sensations of restlessness were creeping up his legs, so that he longed to kick, perhaps even to run.   
  
The sights, the sounds, the phantom sensations, they all began to whirl and collide inside his head, creating a near silent cacophony under his skull so loud it drowned out his urge to scream. He whimpered instead, folding his arms around himself and holding tightly, as though to keep himself from collapsing into pieces.   
  
Presently, a new sensation rose behind the din. His stomach was tensing and clenching, with a few sloshes and gurgles thrown into the mix.   
  
Ah. This, at least, was something he could deal with. A simple problem with a simple explanation and a simple solution. With one thing and another, he hadn't eaten since the hospital. Gingerly, he slipped out of the bed and crept out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen.   
  
It was a great comfort to Sherlock, that he could still make his way to the chrome and teak hub of their lives in the dark and with a minimum of unintentional noise. After years of adolescence-driven midnight raids, his body remembered each step and motion required to reach the refrigerator, and his hand fell on the familiar cold surface in the exact same way it always had done. This, truly this, meant he was home.   
  
He was almost giddy at the prospect, and he couldn't hold back the smile as he yanked the door open, the vacuum seal giving way with a soft  _wumph_ .   
  
The smile froze on his face, contorting itself a millimetre at a time into a sort of ghastly rictus. The fridge was full of food, his favourite foods, from the paper-thin sliced turkey to the wheel of camembert to the bunch of bananas Mycroft insisted on keeping cool rather than leaving them in the fruit bowl with the oranges and the pears.   
  
Sherlock's stomach twisted and groaned, and he reached his hand out for the jam--   
  
Stopped. The lemon custard instead--   
  
No. Carrots could be--   
  
There was a plate of sausages, if he put them in the microwave he could--   
  
Risotto. Ann had made risotto, he could tell because only Ann could make little rosettes out of tomatoes, and--   
  
His hand and his eyes flew from one item to the next, wavering, unsure.  _What do I want? What do I want?!_   
  
A full thirty seconds had passed before he realised he was actually waiting for an answer, for someone else to pop up inside his head and offer him suggestions.   
  
But there was no one in his head. No one but him. He slammed the fridge door closed in disgust and turned to the freezer: ice cream, at least two in his favourite flavours. How was he meant to decide with so many fucking _choices_ ?! He shoved the freezer back into place and rounded on the cupboards. Each one, each and every one, loaded with food. Snacks, ingredients, ready meals, taunting him. Mocking him.   
  
He could make a curry, or warm up a frozen pizza, or bake a cake. They had red velvet mix for Christ's sake! Options, decisions, possibilities, they all crowded into his brain and shouted at him, loud and insistent and _everywhere_ . He clutched his hands to either side of his head and sank down to the floor where the worktops joined at the corner of the room.   
  
He was crying. Jim's games of torture, isolation, and terror had taken months to reduce him to this, and now here he was blubbering like a child from a common kitchen. He sat in the dark, curled up as tightly as he could, holding his knees and crying as his stomach continued to make its senseless demands and the burden of choice hammered under his skull.   
  
_I don't know. I don’t know. I don't_ KNOW!   
  
Three months. Wooden boxes delivered each and every evening. Resorting to cooking fish over the fire when Jim took away their rations. Three months, never choosing, eating to survive, eating what he could get, and he'd forgotten how to prefer. Too many choices, no ramifications save that if he ate  _this_ he would not be eating  _that_ and what if  _that_ turned out to be the better option, or neither was the better option and he actually should have gone with a third? Or a fourth? How to narrow the field? How did he begin to choose with nothing, absolutely nothing, to go on?   
  
_Help me. Please say you hear me and HELP ME. I don't know…_   
  
His mind echoed back at him, silent and endless, like a black desert with no horizon.   
  
He was alone. Completely alone. Locked away from the only people who could--   
  
_Oh_ he was an  _idiot_ .   
  
The way back to his room was just as ingrained in his muscle memory as his foray into the kitchen, and had a much sweeter reward at its end. He crept through the sleeping house and slipped, shadow-like, into his bedroom, greeted instantly with the soft susurrus of John's unconscious breathing.   
  
He began by kissing John's cheek, simply because he could, then he gently took hold of John's right shoulder and gave him a shake. John's breathing stuttered but he slept on.   
  
Sherlock shook him again, this time calling his name in a stage whisper.   
  
John made a soft, confused noise, causing Sherlock's heart to give a giddy kick and jump briefly to his throat. Sherlock kept shaking the shoulder and calling John's name.   
  
'Hm? Wazzat…?'   
  
'John. John, I need you to help me.'   
  
'Sh'rlock?'   
  
'Please. I need your help.'   
  
John sat up instantly, blinking the sleep from his eyes then rubbing them with his hand. 'What's wrong? Are you hurt?'   
  
Sherlock cocked a condescending eyebrow, John shrugged. 'Try me in six months and maybe I'll have figured out how to stop worrying about you.'   
  
'I'm hungry.' Sherlock's stomach burbled in agreement.   
  
'Then eat. I'm sure you know where the food lives.' John teased.   
  
Whatever look was on Sherlock's face, it seemed to drain the mirth out of John in an instant. 'What's wrong?'   
  
'I can't--there's so much. I don't…know…'   
  
John nodded. 'Right. Right, I think--I think I know what you're saying. Not much room for decisions in captivity, right?'   
  
'One of the many drawbacks.'   
  
John manoeuvred himself out of bed with only a brief, steadying hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 'Right.' He said. 'Come with me. We'll sort this.'   
  
John didn't creep through the house. He strode. He switched on lights where he wished and moved with the absolute confidence of someone for whom crowds existed to be pushed through. He walked like a soldier, still: briskly and without apology.   
  
He flooded the kitchen with light, chasing the shadows from each corner and crevice, and all but shoved Sherlock onto one of the chairs at the table.   
  
'Right.' Said John with a brisk tone that said he would be rubbing his hands together if he could. 'Any guidelines?'   
  
'I'm hungry.'   
  
John nodded. 'Good start. So…something substantial? Or more of a midnight snack?'   
  
'I don't know.' Sherlock admitted, frowning.   
  
'O…kay. Sweet? Savoury? Juicy?'   
  
'I don't know.' He said, gritting his teeth.   
  
'Right. Um…hot or cold?'   
  
'John, stop. Any question you're planning on asking me, I can guarantee you the answer will be the same.'   
  
Rather than wilting under this, John drew himself up to his full height. 'Right.' He said decisively. 'You sit there, and leave this all to me.'   
  
'You're going to take care of me?' Sherlock smirked.   
  
John tipped an invisible Stetson atop his head. 'Damn straight, little fella.'   
  
'Do that again, and I'm sending you back to your room.'   
  
'Empty threats.' John scoffed. 'You know you can't get enough of me.'   
  
Before Sherlock could respond, John was tearing through the kitchen, gathering dishes and utensils and slamming his way through the cupboards, the fridge, and the freezer.   
  
'Right…start with…Almond Mocha ice cream. God, do you remember when you ate some of this while we were on the phone? Christ, the sounds you made…'   
  
Figuring his role in the conversation was an observational one, Sherlock sat back and watched John, well, take care of him. The view was spectacular, particularly when John bent down to retrieve the carton of ice cream from the freezer drawer.   
  
'Chocolate sauce or caramel sauce…caramel. I love the way you say caramel.' John seemed increasingly giddy, extolling Sherlock's virtues with every selection.   
  
'Let's see…ooh! Grapes. Do you know, there were nights in the barracks where I'd imagine you draped over one of those long chairs-- chez longues I think-- wearing nothing but a bed sheet while I fed you peeled grapes? You'd make a frighteningly sexy hedonist.'   
  
'Biscuits…no, wait, I think Harry and Mycroft baked some cookies the other night…yes! Um…white chocolate macadamia squares. Yeah, that'll do. Remember when you were fourteen and you said white chocolate tasted like silk? I still don't know what you meant by that.'   
  
By the end of it John had constructed a towering, sugary monstrosity inside of one of the biggest serving bowls in the kitchen. This he set with a flourish, or as much of one as he could manage with only one arm, in front of Sherlock. 'Eat up.'   
  
Sherlock eyed the mass critically. 'You'll make me ill.'   
  
'Yep, and a good old fashioned tummy ache will remind you all about making intelligent choices about your food. Now eat.' He forced a spoon into Sherlock's hand with a cheeky grin.   
  
'Help me?'   
  
John climbed, with surprising ease, atop the table and took up a tailor's seat directly in front of Sherlock's Great Thing of Sugar. He brandished his own spoon and dug into one of the more ice creamy sections of his creation. Sherlock followed suit, snagging a grape as well for no particular reason, and took a bite.   
  
He immediately decided he would never eat grapes or Almond Mocha ice cream independent of one another again.   
  
He moaned very nearly pornographically. 'I love you.' He told John, who grinned.   
  
They ate for a while in silence, occasionally pausing to set down their utensils and reach out to touch one another. A brushing of hair out of Sherlock's eye, a trailing finger along the line of John's wrist, small touches for no reason other than to be touching.   
  
'So I guess it's not a fairy tale after all, is it?' Sherlock said at last.   
  
John paused, spoon still slightly between his lips. 'Whoever said it wasn't?'   
  
Sherlock gestured to the kitchen around them. 'Well, this. Not exactly "happily ever after". I mean, it's all right now, but…we're broken, John. The pair of us. Damaged.'   
  
John shrugged. 'Maybe we're mending. Anyway, there's no such thing as "happily ever after". Not even in fairy tales. "Happily ever after" just means nothing else ever happened, and that's a load of bollocks from the start. At the end of it, nobody walks off with the love of their life into the sunset with a big smile on their face and just…stays that way. Fairy tales don't want to show the stuff that happens after, when the people involved have to re-learn how to live their lives. Nobody wants to know that the handsome prince and the beautiful princess find out two weeks in that they can't stand each other and quietly go their separate ways, or that the knight in shining armour goes on slaying dragons until he meets the one dragon just that bit hungrier. So the storyteller just slaps "happily ever after" on the end and everyone pretends that it works, but it doesn't. Life has to go on, and people have to keep living it, even when the magic part is over with.'   
  
Sherlock eyed him over the pile of sweets. 'Exactly how many of my Gaimans have you been reading?'   
  
John snorted. 'Actually I think that one's more Pratchett than anything. But it's true. You know I'm right.'   
  
Sherlock poked at the confection with his spoon a bit sullenly. 'I miss them.' He whispered.   
  
'I know.'   
  
'I can't sleep. It's not just being hungry. I don't know how to sleep at night anymore.'   
  
'You'll figure it out.'   
  
'I'm afraid of the sunrise. Terrified. I don't…I'm not sure how I'll handle it when it comes.'   
  
'I'll be right there the whole time.'   
  
'I want to fly.'   
  
John froze, then his body deflated. 'I…I don't think I can help you with that.'   
  
Sherlock shook his head and forced himself to bite into one of his cookies.   
  
He swallowed, and it hurt a bit. 'My boyfriend is using my newly acquired neuroses to avoid dealing with his own mental and emotional problems.'   
  
John sighed. 'Spotted that, did you?'   
  
'You were a soldier a lot longer than I was a captive, John. And you brought the army with you when you came back. Tomorrow…it's your first real day as a civilian.'   
  
John closed his eyes. 'I'll have to get used to it. I'm finished with the army, anyway.'   
  
Sherlock scoffed. 'Nonsense. I read your medical report, John. Molly's power circumvented any real nerve damage, the surgery was a complete success, with physical therapy there's no reason why your wound should cause you any noticeable difficulty.'   
  
John turned his head away. 'No, Sherlock. I mean…I'm not going back.'   
  
Sherlock looked up at him. 'What?'   
  
'I'm…I'm not re-enlisting, Sherlock. I'm done. Whatever happens with my shoulder, I'll never be a soldier again.'   
  
Sherlock widened his eyes, his mouth hanging slack. 'But--but you've always wanted to be a soldier. And army doctor, that was the plan. Since we were kids. Like your dad.'   
  
'And look what happened to him!' John snapped. Sherlock rocked back in his chair.   
  
John slumped. 'You--you were taken while I was away. I couldn't be there to help you. I never even got to fight for you. If I go back, I'll have to  _go back_ . I'll have to leave you again.' He didn't open his eyes. 'I can't do that, Sherlock. I just can't.'   
  
'You said yourself. There was nothing you could have done.'   
  
'I could have  _tried_ .' John insisted. 'I didn't even get the chance to do that. Most of a continent away and completely useless. Well, I know what I'm doing now and I refuse to leave you on your own.'   
  
'You can't cast aside your dreams for me, John!'   
  
'I have no dreams but you, Sherlock.' John said. 'All of that, that life I had planned out, it's worthless if you're not in it. Don't ask me to say good bye to you, Sherlock. I don't have it in me.'   
  
Sherlock hung his head. 'Don't ask me to watch you shrivel up inside.'   
  
John sighed. A finger pressed against the bottom of Sherlock's chin, pushing his face up so he could meet John's eye.   
  
'I'll be happy as a doctor, Sherlock. I don't need to carry a gun. If I'm with you, I've got everything I need.'   
  
Sherlock smiled sadly. 'I think that's the prettiest lie I've heard all year.'


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

' _Oof!_  Careful!'

  
'Ow, ow, wait, too fast!'  
  
'Move up a bit, yeah?'  
  
'Oh, this is absurd!'  
  
'The bed…was your…stupid…idea!'  
  
'Wait, I'm slipping. Hang on. …Okay. Yeah, just there. Ready?'  
  
'Think so.'  
  
'Alright, push,  _gently_ .'  
  
'Aye sir!'  
  
'Stop! Stopstopstop!'  
  
'What is it?!'  
  
'Relax. You've just backed me into the wall.'  
  
'What? We're at the landing already?'  
  
Sherlock let out a puff and flicked a sweat-soaked bit of fringe out of his eye. 'Yeah.' He panted, clinging to his end of the mattress as John peered up at him from several steps lower on the staircase.  
  
'I told you a double was plenty, but  _no_ .' John griped. 'King size. You have seen our bedroom, right?'  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Yes, and measured it. Trust me, it'll fit.'  
  
'Oh it'll fit.' John agreed. 'The wardrobe, desk, and bloody floor lamp might not be so lucky.'  
  
'Leave it to me.'  
  
'We are not moving into the TARDIS, Sherlock. You can't decorate on the principle of "bigger on the inside".'  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes again. 'Look, just lift your end and we'll work it round the bend.'  
  
'Oh this is insane.' John muttered, but he lifted his end.  
  
'Oh just…getting that…now, are you?' Sherlock huffed, which admittedly filled John's head with any number of pleasantly naughty thoughts.  
  
'I love you.' John said through gritted teeth. He'd tried the joking 'I hate you' thing exactly once since he and Sherlock were reunited. It had left an acidic taste on his tongue, and Sherlock hadn't quite managed to hide the way his eyes widened and his face paled. It was too soon.  
  
'As long as you don't forget it.' Sherlock quipped. 'Bit to the left,  _mon coeur_ .'  
  
John's legs melted for a moment. He cursed inwardly. Every  _time_ .  
  
'One more of those and I'm dropping the damn thing.'  
  
'Oi! Not while I'm down here!' Lestrade shouted from the foot of the stairs, two large boxes stacked in his arms.  
  
'We're nearly through, Greg.' Sherlock called back, his voice warm and indulgent. It made John's skin crawl a bit, but he forced it back. This was Moving Day, and it was stressful enough without indulging John's territorial instinct.  
  
'Yeah, I buy that.' Greg grunted.  
  
They manhandled the mattress up the rest of the stairs, mainly thanks to Sherlock and some trick of geometry or algebra John was certain he'd just invented, and shoved it into the bedroom with a satisfying  _thud_ , kicking up a cloud of dust from the bedroom floor.  
  
It did fit. Bastard.  
  
'Oh, John…I don't know…' Ann said from the kitchen-section once they'd returned from mattress-shoving. 'Are you sure Basil checked this place thoroughly? I can't imagine he so much as glanced at this tap.'  
  
'And the cupboard, it is very small.' Vienne called from the bedroom. 'Where will Sherlock keep his suits?'  
  
'He's got  _three_ , Aunt Vivi.' John called back, rolling his eyes.  
  
'He could buy more.' She suggested, poking her head out.  
  
John and Sherlock exchanged a look and fought down laughter.  
  
'We have a wardrobe, mother.' Sherlock told her. 'I'm sure John will fill it up with any number of professional ensembles.'  
  
'Oi, leathers, move it.' Harry called, hefting a suitcase past Lestrade and dropping it beside the tatty old sofa.  
  
'Yeah, sorry.' Lestrade murmured, head cocked to hold a boxy mobile against his shoulder. 'Yeah, I'm telling you, Molls, it's like Frankenstein's lab in here. I am literally holding a box of beakers in my arms.'  
  
'Drop it and I eviscerate you.' Sherlock called from the bathroom…well, it was technically a bathroom. It had a shower head. A moment later John heard a drill, and he bolted for the loo before Sherlock could do any serious damage.  
  
When he'd shepherded Sherlock back to the communal area, the chemistry boxes had been set aside and their mothers were busily sorting clothing into piles while Harry wrestled with pots and pans.  
  
'Molly wants to talk to you.' Greg said, thrusting the mobile into Sherlock's face.  
  
He took it and brought it to his ear with a wide smile. 'Molly! How's Sussex? Mycroft getting on well with your parents?' He wandered down the stairs to fetch the next round of boxes with Lestrade on his heels.  
  
John made for the kitchen. It was probably high time to take the microwave out of its box.  
  
Not long after the plug was in the wall, there was a terrific amount of banging and crashing from the stairwell as Sherlock and Lestrade manhandled Sherlock's computer equipment into the flat. Probably, John should have offered to help. He didn't. He watched them struggle through the door and set the boxes down as gently as they could.  
  
Lestrade had the phone back and was chatting away to Molly. He lifted his chin, 'Hey, Sherlock, Molly wants to know if we should look into that three-way calling stuff.'  
  
Sherlock didn't look up from examining the monitor for damage. 'It has potential, but we'll be installing an answerphone when we get our telephone line set up and we can have her on speaker. Much easier.'  
  
'Yeah, when I'm here.' Which he surely would be. All the time.  
  
'I'll look into it.' Sherlock told him, ripping open another box, this one containing the modem, John figured. Satisfied, he shifted the boxes aside and out of the way and moved to join Harry and their mothers sorting clothes. He pulled a box closer and pulled it open.  
  
Lestrade saw him and let out a whistle. 'Are those all yours?' He asked.  
  
Sherlock blushed and tried to close the box again but Lestrade intercepted. 'Greg!'  
  
'Oh my God.' Lestrade laughed into the phone. 'You should see this, Molly. You would not believe the amount of underwear Sherlock owns. Look at this! I bet there's a pair for every day of the year!'  
  
'Stop it!' Sherlock snapped, jerking the box away.  
  
'I'm serious Molls, a truly unprecedented number of pants. Piles of them. Great, towering mountains of--'  
  
'Yes, alright,  _enough_ !' Sherlock snapped.  
  
Harry snorted. 'He's always been like that. D'you know he has a sock index?'  
  
'Harry, be nice.' Ann admonished wearily.  
  
Harry shrugged. 'What? He does.'  
  
'Oh I've  _got_  to hear about the sock index.' Lestrade snorted.  
  
'Oh ha, bloody ha!' Sherlock snarled, getting to his feet and stomping to the bedroom. 'Have fun unpacking on your own!' He said, slamming the door behind him.  
  
John groaned and dropped his head into his hand. And here it came, the histrionics. 'The man I love, ladies and gentlemen.' He muttered to himself.  
  
'I'll call you back, Molly.' Lestrade said, following Sherlock to the door.  
  
'Just--' John started, but Lestrade wasn't paying attention.  
  
'Come on, kid! I was just taking the piss. Get back out here.'  
  
John sighed and moved to finish unpacking the kitchen. He'd learn, eventually. Just let Sherlock ride out his moods and everyone could go on with their lives.  
  
'Oh stop whingeing and give us a hand, all right? I'm sorry I poked fun.'  
  
'Piss off!' Sherlock's voice was muffled, but no less venomous.  
  
Lestrade sighed and crossed his arms. 'Oh, come on, gorgeous! We're only kidding!'  
  
It felt, to John, a bit like ice filling his spinal column. He froze. Harry froze. Ann and Vienne dropped their projects. Silence fell across the already fairly quiet flat, and Lestrade looked around, unsure.  
  
'John--' John raised a hand and Harry stopped talking.  
  
'What?' Lestrade asked. 'Something wrong?'  
  
'It's fine.' John gritted out. 'Could use a hand with the rest, though. While Sherlock throws his tantrum.'  
  
Lestrade looked around the room, then at the bedroom door, then at John. He lowered his gaze and nodded. 'Yeah, all right.'  
  
John left the room, and didn't look back to see whether or not Lestrade was following.  
  
~~~  
  
Sherlock listened to two sets of footsteps vanishing down the stairs. He heard the door slam behind them, and he scrabbled for the doorknob and burst into the living area.  
  
'Why didn't you stop them?' He demanded. 'That was John's "let's go where there are no witnesses" voice!'  
  
'Relax, mate.' Harry said. 'Let them get it out of their systems. Had to happen sooner or later.'  
  
'But they're being  _idiots_ .'  
  
'Well…yes. They're  _men_ .' Harry explained, as though to a child. 'No offense.'  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'One day. I just wanted one day.'  
  
'Relax,  _petit_ .' Offered Vienne. 'They can handle themselves.'  
  
'Oh I know that.' Sherlock said. 'It's what they'll do to each other that annoys me.'  
  
~~~  
  
'What the hell are you playing at?' John demanded before Lestrade was even clear of the stairs.  
  
'Pardon?' Lestrade asked. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest.  
  
'Oh you can't actually be that thick.' John sneered. ' _That_ .' He pointed upward. 'Upstairs. What? Did it just slip your notice that I was standing  _right there_ ?'  
  
Lestrade screwed up his face in confusion and jerked a thumb toward the stairwell. 'What, you mean me and Sherlock? Relax, soldier boy, it doesn't mean anything. That's just us.'  
  
'Yeah.' Said John. 'Yeah, it's just you. And, you know, whenever you're around it is just you. Sherlock and Greg, best mates, partners in fucking crime. You come around and he doesn't so much as  _sneeze_  but you're all over him with a hanky and a cup of tea!'  
  
'Yeah well I didn't see you doing anything to calm him down up there.' Lestrade challenged, pushing off from the wall and half sauntering, half stalking toward John.  
  
'Oh please.' John scoffed. 'Is that what this is? You're so much closer to him, you share this big, profound bond so I could never be what he needs like you could?'  
  
'What the hell, Watson? When did we end up in a pissing contest over your boyfriend?'  
  
'Yeah,' Said John. ' _My_  boyfriend. Not yours.'  
  
'You've got to be kidding.' Lestrade rolled his eyes. 'Look, I'm not even a little interested in Sherlock.'  
  
'Really? 'Cause that's not what I'm seeing.'  
  
'Oh for fuck's-- look, do you need to hit me? Is that what it's going to take to sort this out for you?'  
  
'Might help, yeah.'  
  
'Right.' Said Lestrade with a sniff. 'Go on, then. Your best shot. Right here.'  
  
John felt his fingers curl into a fist, far too tight for an effective punch, and gritted his teeth. 'You'd like that, wouldn't you? So you can prove to Sherlock that I'm some sort of unstable madman?'  
  
'Hardly seems like you need any help from me.' Lestrade sneered.  
  
John shook his head. 'You can't take it, can you? Nobody's crying on your shoulder, needing your protection.' He bared his teeth in something almost like a smile. 'No one to make you feel big and strong anymore?'  
  
'Oh come off it.' Lestrade said with a roll of his eyes. 'You just can't stand sharing him. It kills you that you're not the centre of his world anymore. He's actually got someone besides you for a change, and that drives you mad.'  
  
'Oh, yeah. Totally barmy. Yeah, seeing him with Molly gets right under my skin.'  
  
'Molly's not a threat, though, is she?' Lestrade smirked. 'Doesn't run to his tastes, does she? Face it, soldier boy, until I came along the only other bloke around Sherlock was his own brother.'  
  
'We grew up in France, you tit! He's been shrugging off smarmy bastards just like you since he was twelve.'  
  
'Maybe, but I'm the first one he's actually let get close, and that kills you.'  
  
~~~  
  
Sherlock stopped in his pacing, his face set. 'Right, I've had enough of this.'  
  
'Sherlock, don't!' Ann implored him. 'Give him a chance to do what's right.'  
  
'Which one of them?' Sherlock demanded. 'You don't know Greg. That man could drive a sloth to violence. He thrives on being an annoying berk!'  
  
'Sherlock!' Gasped Vienne. Harry hid a snort of laughter behind her hand.  
  
Sherlock waved her off. 'Christ I need Molly.' He muttered, then he strode to the door and yanked it open. 'I'm putting a stop to this.'  
  
~~~  
  
'He's not some wounded bird for you to look after anymore!' John was almost shouting. 'You don't need to hover over him all the time. Let him fucking breathe!'  
  
'What you mean like you did? Thirteen years treating him like shit and then overnight you decide he's the only one for you?'  
  
'Piss off. You don't know the first thing about us.'  
  
'Oh I know all about you. What do you think he talked about all the bloody time?'  
  
'You didn't have to listen to it.' John challenged.  
  
'Yes I did! Because he needed me.'  
  
John scoffed. 'Yeah well that's over. He doesn't need you anymore.'  
  
'Yeah but what if I need him?!'  Lestrade shouted.  
  
Silence crashed between them and Lestrade reeled backward. He didn't cover his mouth with his hand, but his expression practically screamed how much he desperately wanted to.  
  
It was probably only seconds after that, though it felt like ages, when Sherlock rattled down the stairs. He came to a halt, stunned and uncertain, looking between the two men, neither of whom acknowledged him.  
  
The moment hung, suspended, in a kind of unarmed Mexican Standoff. Sherlock glanced between the two, his body seemingly unable to decide which direction to take. John kept Sherlock in his peripheral vision, but the majority of his attention was on Lestrade, who seemed to be silently and invisibly shattering in front of him.  
  
Lestrade was the first to move. 'Sod this.' He said, shaking his head. 'I'm done here.'  
  
He turned away and loped off, down the road.  
  
'Greg!' Sherlock called, and he'd already taken one step to follow his friend before he caught himself and turned to John, his expression uncertain and lost.  
  
'He…I…'  
  
John didn't look at him. Couldn't look at him. He balled his hands into fists at his sides and stood still, his body vibrating with the effort of keeping himself in check.  
  
'John--'  
  
'Go.' John said.  
  
Sherlock jerked back a bit, as though John had slapped him.  
  
'I said go!' John snapped. 'Go…stop him before he does something stupid.'  
  
Sherlock shook his head, 'John, I--'  
  
'I'll just go inside and…set up your computer.' He walked through the door and started climbing the stairs. He didn't look back, but he couldn't help but hear Sherlock's footsteps taking off at a run, fading into the distance.  
  
By the time he reached the flat, his vision had tunnelled. He muttered something to his mum and Harry and Vienne, possibly about needing air, and snatched up the keys he'd left on the worktop. He'd only brought the damn bike so Lestrade could take it with him when he left, but now that plans had changed he quite fancied a ride himself.  
  
Riding really was a fantastic sensation, and the wind cocooning his body did take some of the edge off, so by the time he'd reached his destination he was no longer entirely murderous. And though he'd got on the bike with no specific place in mind, it was hardly surprising to see the familiar boxy buildings and stark facades of the army base where he'd trained. Once he saw where he was, he knew where he was going.  
  
The lads at The Brigadier recognised him and gave him a wide berth. His tags, returned to him once Sherlock had gone back to wearing the swan necklace, were tucked under his shirt but it didn't matter. Even if he hadn't served with a good third of these men, you learned to recognise your own, uniform or no.  
  
Lorris stood him a round, which he nursed in silence. His thoughts were still whirling about inside his head, making him dizzy and angry and tired all at once. There was a series of clacks, a hush of wood over felt, and somebody pressed a long stick into his hand.  
  
He looked up at the cue, and over at the pool tables. He stood up, joined the others around the newly set up table, and aligned his shot.  
  
~~~  
  
'You heard that.' Greg sighed. It had been a merry chase, and it had taken Sherlock all the way into Russell Square to catch up. Admittedly it could have been worse, but Sherlock was still learning the city and he wasn't at all confident he knew the way back to the flat just yet.  
  
'I don't know what I heard.' Sherlock said, dropping down onto the bench beside Greg.  
  
'Pull the other one.'  
  
Sherlock paused. 'You could…tell me? Just so I'm sure I've got it straight.'  
  
Greg sighed and brought his knee up until his heel rested on the bench. Sherlock still wasn't used to the sight of him in jeans. At least he still had the leather jacket. It was comfortably familiar.  
  
'Your brother got me a flat.'  
  
Sherlock blinked. 'He--he did. Of course he did.'  
  
'He's working on getting me back in the force. I mean…what more could I want, right? I've got free housing, I've got a job coming, got you.' He paused. 'Everything I wanted, right?'  
  
'Except Molly.' Sherlock suggested.  
  
Greg hung his head. 'No…no I don't have her. Don't really have you, either.'  
  
Sherlock didn't say anything to that.  
  
'See, the thing is, I've got none of that. I mean the flat's too big. It echoes around me, and it feels like I'm just staying there until…I don't know. Something. And my job?' He snorted. 'All those questions I have to learn how to answer. I start off, right? With a lie. A huge one because, I can't tell any of them where I've been. What happened to me. And you…'  
  
'I'm right here.' Sherlock offered.  
  
Greg shook his head. 'You're too far away.'  
  
Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around himself. He didn't have anything to say to that.  
  
'It would be easier with her.' Greg whispered. 'Two years, and she was the only thing that made sense. And…and I know she doesn't say but I can  _hear_  it. When I'm talking to her I can hear how much she's drowning over there and I just want--but she's got her mum and dad and you've got your whole fleet back there,' He jerked his head back toward Montague Street. 'I'm the only one who's alone.'  
  
Sherlock let out a breath through his nose and shifted. He pulled his legs onto the bench and wrapped his arms around them. The wind was playing up and he wished he'd grabbed a jacket.  
  
'I do feel it, Greg.' He said, staring straight ahead. 'How empty it is. I miss her so much it hurts sometimes, but she'll come back. She's got her life back, but that doesn't mean we won't be part of it.'  
  
'Not like we were.' Said Greg. 'And…it's stupid. I just got used to, you know, not being alone. Now it's…' He shook his head. 'Two years, Sherlock. How do you just pick it back up after so long?'  
  
'You ask for help.'  
  
'Eh?'  
  
Sherlock looked over at him. 'I've made an appointment with my old therapist. He relocated to London about six months ago. I mean I'd always intended, once John and I were settled. It's a bit mad to think we can just go back, isn't it?'  
  
Greg gave a joyless laugh. 'And here I thought you had it all figured out.'  
  
'I do.' Sherlock said. 'But then, that's what I'm good for, isn't it? I figure things out.'  
  
'Like what?'  
  
'Like what you're trying to do.' Sherlock looked straight ahead again. 'You're trying to convince yourself that I still need you.'  
  
'Sherlock,'  
  
'I do.' Sherlock admitted with a wince. 'I always will. But not like I did. What happened at the lake is over. This is what I wanted, Greg. This is exactly and entirely what I wanted.'  
  
Greg didn't speak at first, as unwilling to look at Sherlock as Sherlock was to look at him. The square wasn't the lake. It didn't even look like it. But it was close enough that he was able to say, 'Then what happens to me?'  
  
'I don't know.' Said Sherlock. He thought for a moment. 'Do you remember when you taught me how to fly?'  
  
'Of course I do.'  
  
'You told me to let go.' He dared a glance at his friend. 'Let me go, Greg. You can't hold on to me so tightly.'  
  
'Because of John?'  
  
'Because of who I am!' Sherlock insisted. 'I will never be as scared and alone as I was when we met. I'd like to think you came to like me for more than just how much I needed you.'  
  
'I do. I did. I just don't want to wake up one morning and find you've both--' He stopped himself, then hung his head and sighed. 'Moved on.'  
  
'Like your fiancée?'  
  
'Something like that.'  
  
Sherlock slid his bottom lip between his teeth and let it back out slowly as he thought. 'I think…we just need to get used to being our own people again. But let me make one thing perfectly clear,' He turned his head and met Greg's eye. 'There is only one way I can see for you to get rid of me.'  
  
'And what's that?'

  
'Don't make me choose, Greg.' Sherlock told him. 'Don't try to come between John and me. If I have to make a choice, we both know what it will be.'  
  
They sat there, eyes locked, not touching, and the wind vanished from beneath their wings, bringing them back down to earth.  
  
They would never fly again.  
  
~~~  
  
John was late. Whatever time he may have been expected back, he was most definitely late for it. He'd lost track of how many games of pool he'd won, though not of how many he'd lost. After a while pool became darts became an impromptu game of cards played for mixed nuts, until John looked at his watch and realised there was very little night left. He went back to the flat.  
  
It was quiet. He closed the door as quietly as he could, dropped his keys on the worktop and paused over the kettle he didn't remember unpacking. There was a note beside it.  
  
 _Dear John: I survived. You owe Sherlock_ _£5._  
  
John snorted a laugh, then quieted himself. He looked over and saw his favourite mug freshly washed and sitting beside the sink. He knew if he looked he'd find a used teabag in the bin, and he sighed. Sherlock was trying. He could try, too.  
  
He went to the bedroom, slipping out of his jumper along the way. He didn't feel particularly tired, but lying down just then sounded a fantastic idea. He tossed his jumper aside, slid out of his trousers, and carefully lifted the corner of the duvet. He could see the shape of Sherlock's body in the darkness, and not for the first time it struck him like a blow just how lucky he was that he could have this, that this quiet moment of paradise was his to call his own. It made his throat hurt.  
  
'I made you tea.' Sherlock's voice didn't make him jump, but it was a close thing.  
  
'I know. I saw. How long have you been awake?'  
  
'I haven't slept.'  
  
'Oh.' John slipped into bed and pulled the covers up around him, then he lay on his side facing Sherlock. This close, he could see the shine of Sherlock's eyes reflecting the light from the window.  
  
'You went drinking.'  
  
John closed his eyes, then nodded. 'Yeah.'  
  
'You didn't get drunk?'  
  
He sighed. 'No, I didn't. I thought about it. Then I threw sharp objects around until I felt better.'  
  
'And do you?'  
  
John silently turned onto his back and stared for a moment at the stark lines the moon made against the ceiling. 'I'm not sure. It's all muddled.'  
  
'What happened today with Greg, it was my fault.' Sherlock said. 'I shouldn't have asked him to come.'  
  
John exhaled sharply through his nose. 'No, no. He's your friend. Friends are supposed to help you move. It's an unwritten contract or something.'  
  
'I know how you two get on, though.'  
  
John smirked at that. 'Yeah.'  
  
Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. 'Nothing happened, John. I swear. The whole time, not once. It was always you. Just you.'  
  
John closed his eyes. 'I know.' He didn't know. His head knew, the rest of him kept coming up with increasingly lewd scenarios of how Sherlock and Lestrade had passed the long, lonely nights in that hut, on that nest.  
  
'But you're still angry.'  
  
John sighed. He waited long seconds for his thoughts to slot into place. When he felt he had some sort of footing, he spoke, his tongue felt heavy.  
  
'Okay. Cards on the table.' He began. He kept his eyes glued to the ceiling. 'I don't…like…the way he talks to you. Or how he touches you. Or looks at you. Like he's starving or something. I know you're not--and, I don't want to be the sort of man who-- I never want to be the thing that stops you being happy.'  
  
'Nor do I.' Sherlock insisted. 'But you are unhappy, John. I can't stand it.'  
  
'But you never stop it.' John muttered.  
  
'What?' Sherlock propped himself up higher, and John turned his head away.  
  
'Nothing.'  
  
'John.'  
  
'Nothing. I,' He pressed his lips together. 'I just…I don't understand why you never tell him off for it. I mean you'll practically be inside his jacket and not one word. You never shrug him off, never tell him to shut it. Nothing. Why?' He looked over at Sherlock then, and his lover had drawn back and was staring down at his own hand, blinking.  
  
'I--I didn't notice. At first. And then it was just…I don't know. It all feels like a poor substitute for what it was like. We got so used to being close that it was more effort to keep apart. I…wish I'd noticed how hard it was for you. I'm ashamed I missed it.'  
  
John shook his head. 'I didn't exactly speak up, did I?'  
  
'You could have.'  
  
'Could I?' John asked. 'Because the pair of you, the three of you really, you've got this whole club going on with this secret language and all of these looks you pass each other. How could I be the one to take that away from you?'  
  
'Because you're more than that, John.' Sherlock said. 'I would give anything for you.'  
  
'But you shouldn't have to!' John snapped. 'I don't own you. I'm not about to put a stamp on your forehead saying "property of John Watson". My mum'd kill me, for one.'  
  
Sherlock chuckled, then schooled his features. 'No, you did it with a necklace. Before I could even focus my eyes. John, please. Tell me how to fix this.'  
  
'Sherlock…'  
  
'I spoke to Greg.' Sherlock said quickly, appeasingly.  
  
'Oh?'  
  
'Yes. I, I think I made myself clear. Explained why I needed to put space between us. But, I'm not sure how much. I--don't really know how to do this, John. There was a time I couldn't sleep if he wasn't with me. Everything we do now feels like we've taken several steps back.'  
  
John paled. Sherlock noticed, of course, and he flopped back with his hands pressed over his eyes and groaned. 'You see?! I don't know where the line is anymore, how can I expect it of him?'  
  
'Never mentioning that bit again is probably a good place to start.' John said, probably more darkly than he should have but he had a hard time caring.  
  
Sherlock slammed his head back against his pillow. 'Please, I just,' he took a deep breath. 'Tell me what I'm doing wrong and I'll stop, I promise. Anything, John.'  
  
John let out a breath and scrubbed his face with his hands. 'I'm not sure I can--'  
  
'John, I mean it. I will do anything if it means I won't have to wait for you until two in the morning again.'  
  
John winced. Then he let his arms fall to his sides and took a breath. 'Okay. Okay. I guess…no more touching.'  
  
He didn't miss the flinch Sherlock tried to hide, or the terror that flashed briefly in his eyes, so he added quickly, 'I mean, not that you can't touch him at all, ever. Just…don't let him hang on you like he does. And…the cuddling. That thing you do with his leather jacket. I mean, at least not when I'm around. If you need a cuddle that badly, I'm glad to offer my services.'  
  
'What else?' Sherlock's voice was too even, and John felt like a bastard but he pressed on.  
  
'The pet names. I don't mind Pretty Boy so much but the others. Gorgeous, Beautiful,  _Legs_.' He made a face. 'If I tried any of those you'd dismember me.'  
  
Sherlock snorted. 'He's used worse. I suppose I became inured to it. It didn't seem an issue worth pressing when he was bleeding internally.'  
  
John grimaced. 'Right. Look, I know it's not the same. But the lads I trained with, the ones I fought with. Sherlock I was ready to die for them. But here, home, with you…I don't need what they gave me anymore. It doesn't change what they were to me, it just changes how we treat each other now. Nothing is going to take away the things you did for each other back there. I just…I want to know that when he's in the room, you can see me just as clearly.'  
  
Sherlock's face softened, and he ran his fingertips along the apple of John's cheek. 'I could never fail to see you, John. But I will try harder to ensure that you know it.'  
  
John smiled. 'All I ask.'  
  
Sherlock slid closer and snuggled against him, all hot skin and long limbs. His cheek found John's shoulder and he let out a contented sigh. 'Am I forgiven?'  
  
'Mm.' John hummed. 'Give me a minute. I don't get to be the one in the right very often.'  
  
'Enjoy it while it lasts.' Sherlock told him. 'Soon I shall master even this.'  
  
'Yeah, you're God's gift to humanity. Foetid mould experiments and all.'  
  
Sherlock yawned and undulated his body like a cat settling into the point of maximum comfort. It made certain parts of John take a perhaps inappropriate kind of notice.  
  
'I am sorry, John. For everything.' Sherlock whispered, his voice thick and weary.  
  
John ran his knuckles along the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock's upper arm. 'It's alright. You're human. Part of me is just glad of the reminder.'  
  
Sherlock smiled at that and pushed himself up to claim a kiss. 'Oh I can be very, very human  _mon coeur_.'  
  
John looked at him, took in the suggestively wicked gleam in his eye, and smirked.  
  
'Prove it.'  
  
~~~  
  
Six weeks after her rescue from the lake, Molly Hooper walked down the pavement of Montague Street with a purple parasol over one shoulder and a new haircut. The sun beat down on her translucent sunshade, painting her skin and hair with a wash of violet. She wore jeans and her shirt had long, filmy sleeves, and she wore flowery perfume to mask the scent of sunblock on her skin.  
  
Oliver watched her from the corner where the car was idling. No doubt Mycroft had threatened to erase him from the world should anything happen to her on her first trip out, and it had been quite an ordeal to convince him to let her walk down the street rather than driving her to Sherlock's doorstep.  
  
Molly took a deep breath at Sherlock's front door. She raised her hand to ring the bell for flat D, but hadn't got within six centimetres before the door was yanked open and Sherlock grinned down at her.  
  
His hair was shorter, his skin fractionally darker, and he stood much straighter and taller than she remembered.  
  
'Molly!' He cried, sweeping her up into a hug. Startled, she dropped her parasol and it rolled a little ways away on the pavement.  
  
Sherlock let her go and swept down to snatch it up and collapse it. 'Greg!' He called up the stairwell. 'She's here!'  
  
'Molls?' Greg's voice called from the flat above, and there was a thundering of footfalls on the stairs before Greg came careening around the landing and all but fell down the remaining steps to sweep her up and off her feet in the doorway.  
  
'Wow! Okay. Um…I missed you, too.' She gasped through the embrace. Greg loosened his hold just long enough to plant a loud, obnoxious kiss on her cheek before clutching her tightly again.  
  
'He's been insufferable without you.' Sherlock said, leaning against the interior wall by the door. 'I'd swear he's devolving.'  
  
'Greg. Air.' Molly wheezed, and Greg let her go with a blush and a mumbled apology.  
  
She felt a prickling along her lower eyelids and swore, swiping irritably at her eyes and averting her gaze.  
  
'What's wrong?' Sherlock demanded instantly.  
  
Molly shook her head. 'No, nothing. Just. I am  _so_  ready to be done crying.'  
  
Greg frowned. 'What's going on? Are they treating you all right? Are you okay out there?'  
  
She held up a hand. 'Greg, stop. I'm fine. It's not,' She shook her head and managed a smile. 'It's a lot of things. It's…the constant surveillance, and my parents not knowing how to talk to me, and revisiting puberty because apparently  _that_  wasn't included in whatever Jim did to me. And it's the swollen feet and bruising like a bloody peach and,' She shook her head again and exhaled. 'It's just been a very long couple of months.'  
  
Without a word, Greg gathered her back into his arms again. She let him. Felt his familiar warmth through the unfamiliar texture of a new shirt. The button dug into her cheek. She felt right. This felt right. Like home. And how sick was it that she felt more belonging here in the arms of a man twelve years her senior standing in the foyer of an unfamiliar flat than she did with her own parents?  
  
Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes narrowed slightly as though reading something in the air, and when Molly had got the tears under control and Greg had pulled away to rub at her arms, he tilted his head toward the stairs and led them both up to the flat he shared with John.  
  
'Aunt Ann was here yesterday, so we've got food.' Sherlock said, opening the door with a couple of punches and a low kick.  
  
'I haven't had a chance to buy tools yet.' Greg muttered into Molly's ear. 'I'm fixing it next weekend.'  
  
'A threshold does not magically carry someone out of earshot.' Sherlock called back.  
  
'Fine!' Greg replied, pulling the door shut and glaring at the open door of the fridge which obscured Sherlock from the waist up. 'John and I are fixing it next weekend.'  
  
'You seem so thrilled.' Molly deadpanned.  
  
'Blame my infuriating sister.' Sherlock said, popping his head up to look over the door. 'It's her idea. Which means Mycroft supports it, which means mother finds it a capital suggestion.' He rolled his eyes.  
  
Molly frowned. 'You mean Harriet, right?'  
  
Sherlock groaned and closed the fridge door, leaning heavily against it. 'Yes, I mean Harriet. "My boyfriend's sister" is awkward and distant, "my sister-in-law" is factually inaccurate. And a sore spot for John for some reason. "Sister" is just easiest.'  
  
Molly stood in the centre of the living area, floundering. She looked around at the towers of books, the shelves and tables full of chemistry equipment, the corner dominated by a large, boxy computer, and she felt lost. In six weeks of convalescence, what had she missed? How much had she never known?  
  
'Sorry, I don't follow any of this.' She said.  
  
Sherlock and Greg exchanged a look. It was Sherlock who spoke.  
  
'We could've used you around here, Molly.' He said. 'We seem a bit hopeless at sorting ourselves.'  
  
Molly eyed Greg. 'What did you do?'  
  
Greg widened his eyes and raised his hands. 'Me?! I'm completely innoc--' His voice faded under the combined weight of Molly and  
  
Sherlock's glares. He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, blushing. 'I got a little lost.'  
  
Sherlock scoffed. 'He and John were circling each other like animals. It was tedious.'  
  
'I'm playing nice!' Greg protested.  
  
Molly flopped down on the rather worn sofa and sighed. 'To be quite honest…I'm not in such good shape myself.' She said. 'I don't know what help I'd be.'  
  
'Couldn't have hurt.' Greg shrugged. He jumped backward onto the sofa, landing with a loud creak and a thump.  
  
Sherlock made a vaguely impatient sound and opened the fridge again. 'Dammit!' He hissed from within its recesses. 'She makes it look so simple!'  
  
'What are you trying to do in there?' Molly asked, craning her neck.  
  
There was a slight crashing and Sherlock swore under his breath. He huffed and snapped a muffled 'Forget it.' And emerged with a circular trey covered in half-sandwiches, crackers, and cheese. It would have been quite a spread, but that it was all heaped into a poorly constructed, sad-looking pile on the plastic. Sherlock dropped it unceremoniously on the table amidst quite a lot of scientific glassware and several tea and coffee mugs.  
  
'Cokes in the fridge if you want some. Glasses in the cupboard over the sink.' Sherlock grumbled, crossing the living room bit to flop into a vaguely green armchair.  
  
'Quite the charming host, you are.' Greg teased.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'I fail to see how these social constructs apply to us. We lived in each other's brains for goodness' sake! Shouldn't we get a pass?'  
  
Molly took a moment to translate into Sherlock-ese, then smiled. 'It was a nice gesture, Sherlock. It looks lovely.'  
  
Sherlock favoured her with a tight smile and flicked his eyes to the wall clock for a second before returning them to their study of nothing much in particular.  
  
Greg rolled his eyes and Molly tittered. 'When's John due back, then?'  
  
Sherlock smiled more genuinely this time, his body relaxing. 'An hour or so. He's just at St Bart's hospital, sorting a few things before he starts his first term.'  
  
Greg drew a breath through his teeth, wincing. 'That's not long, is it?' He ventured. 'You gonna be okay?'  
  
Sherlock shrugged too carelessly and averted his eyes. 'We'll make do.'  
  
'Yeah…' Greg trailed into silence. It hung between them for a moment, then Greg clapped his hands and sat upright.  
  
'Right!' He said. 'Well, on with it then. You said you'd be able to tolerate it with Molls around, and Molls is around.' He grinned.  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened. 'No. No, no, Greg, please!'  
  
'Nope!' Greg pronounced. 'You've had your reprieve. We've put this off long enough.' He fished about in a battered rucksack beside the couch and produced an equally battered video tape.  
  
'What's going on?' Molly asked, settling in beside Greg.  
  
Greg brandished the video with a wide, tongue-wagging grin and said, 'One hundred and thirty-one minutes of pure, undiluted testosterone!'  
  
Molly snatched the case. ' _Die Hard_? Ick! My dad used to watch this all the time when I was a kid.'  
  
Greg snatched it back. 'Yep, and we are going to watch it now. Nothing like seeing Alan Rickman pretend to be German.'  
  
'Molly, I am begging you, put a stop to this.' Sherlock pleaded.  
  
Molly looked from Greg to Sherlock and sighed. 'Sorry, Sherlock. But I'm sure it won't be that bad.'  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Fine. But we'll need the remote.' He stood and walked over to a desk. He pulled the drawer open with a little more force than was necessary and retrieved a plastic package from within.  
  
'Hold on, hold on!' Greg protested. 'You mean to tell me you and John have lived here for two weeks and you haven't got around to unpacking the remote? What have you been doing with yourselves all this time?'  
  
Sherlock froze and his eyes went wide. Molly cleared her throat meaningfully. The moment dragged on as Greg looked between the two of them in confusion, until,  
  
'Oh.'  
  
'By Jove, I think he's got it.' Molly muttered.  
  
Sherlock ducked his head to hide the blush behind his fringe. He mumbled something about breaking the first one when they moved in and shuffled into the kitchen.  
  
Molly glanced at Greg and caught him furrowing his brow and mouthing, ' _Two weeks?!_ '  
  
Sherlock picked up a knife from the block on the worktop and began to  methodically work his way around the plastic. Molly winced and glanced around the place for a pair of scissors, but gave up on finding any fairly quickly.  
  
'You know, it's uncanny.' Greg commented, peering at the summary on the back of the video box. 'I mean, usually when it's cocksure American super-git against scheming British villain I’m all in for the home team. But there's just something about Bruce Willis. He's like…the essential Man, you know?'  
  
Molly rolled her eyes. 'I suppose it's too much to hope there'd be some interesting women in the film?'  
  
Greg blinked at her and tilted his head. 'Eh?' Then shrugged it off. 'Anyway, Rickman's German in this, so it doesn't really count.'  
  
Molly rolled her eyes. 'Tit.'  
  
'Ah!  _Shit_!' Sherlock hissed from the kitchen. Molly whipped her head round to him and saw him shake his left index finger before bringing it to his mouth with a near-silent whimper.  
  
'What happened?' Greg asked, already half-standing.  
  
'Damn plastic!' Sherlock snarled. 'The knife was fine but when I started trying to pull the damn thing apart it splintered and cut me.'  
  
'Ah, fuck, that's never fun.' Greg sympathised.  
  
Molly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stood up on automatic. 'Here, let me get that for you.'  
  
She'd already crossed the room and taken Sherlock's bleeding hand in hers before reality caught up with her. She looked down at the cut, oozing freely in her grip, and up to Sherlock whose eyes and gone wide and cautious.  
  
'Molly…' He breathed.  
  
Molly blushed, tucked her hair behind her ear again, and shifted her weight. 'No, I…I know.' She whispered. 'Uh, first aid kit?'  
  
Sherlock tilted his head toward the tiny bathroom and said, 'Under the sink.' Molly dropped his hand and went to fetch it, something inside her calling out all the while to a body that could never answer her again.  
  
When she came back, Greg and Sherlock were standing close together, their heads bowed and their voices low. They looked up when she emerged from the loo, medical supplies in hand, and Sherlock sank automatically to the floor in front of the sofa so she could work on him while sitting.  
  
'I didn't forget.' She said, false brightness in her voice. 'Not really. I mean, I did, but it was just…instinct, you know? I got so used to putting you lot back together I guess I never planned for a day when I couldn't do it.' She gently dabbed alcohol over the cut until it was clean and the skin around it shiny.  
  
A moment. A breath. And then,  
  
'I call for you when I have nightmares.' Sherlock admitted, eyes downcast. 'Not always. Usually it's John, but sometimes, certain ones, I just--' He didn't finish. Molly didn't particularly want him to.  
  
'Aw, hell.' Greg grumbled after a brief pause. 'You both already know how fucked up I am. We're none of us okay, Molls, not by a long shot. But we're mending. Isn't that what we're meant to do?'  
  
Molly sniffled and nodded her head.  
  
'Right.' Said Greg. 'Let me at that remote. I'll teach it to attack pretty nutters about to watch  _Die Hard_  for the first time.'  
  
'And last!' Sherlock shouted after him, though he'd hardly moved any distance at all.  
  
'You say that, kid. But you haven't witnessed the sheer manliness of John McClane yet.'  
  
'My John is all the manliness I need.' Sherlock retorted, smug and self-satisfied.  
  
Molly pulled the plaster a bit tighter around his finger than she had to. Sherlock flinched, and she considered it a victory. Doubtless it was true, but certain levels of cheesiness simply couldn't go unpunished.  
  
Moments later, Greg wrestled the new remote control into submission and set up the tape in the VCR. He settled back in the sofa beside Molly with a contented sigh and pressed play. Sherlock stayed on the floor, but shifted into a more comfortable position with his head resting alongside Molly's knee.  
  
For all their protests, it wasn't a bad time. They popped some popcorn, mainly so they could have something to throw at each other, Bruce Willis was, indeed, captivating and oddly charming despite perpetrating an incredibly outdated and restrictive definition of masculinity, Alan Rickman was inappropriately adorable as a German baddie. And Sherlock said 'Yipee kai-yay' at one point. Sarcastically and dripping with disdain, but still. It was memorable.  
  
~~~  
  
'Greg, you're forgiven. For everything.'  
  
Sherlock whipped round at John's voice and hurried to his feet to pull him into a kiss before he could get the door closed.  
  
'Mmm…needed that.' John breathed against Sherlock's lips. 'Missed you, too, love.'  
  
Greg pulled a face. 'Regretting those sandwiches now. What've I done?'  
  
John gestured to the telly, where Bruce Willis was trading radio-static-y barbs with German Alan Rickman. 'How. The  _hell_. Did you get him to watch an actual film?'  
  
'I watch films!' Sherlock protested.  
  
'Darling, I don't know how to describe the things you watch, but "film" is probably the last word I'd use. What the fuck was  _Eraserhead_  even about?'  
  
'I only watched it to prove to Mycroft that I could. I didn't enjoy it.'  
  
'Harry liked it.'  
  
'That's because she regards childbirth with the kind of deep-seated fear most people reserve for flesh-eating diseases.'  
  
Sherlock watched John's eyes go vacant as he tried to parse the connection between  _Eraserhead_  and giving birth, timing it at 3.7 seconds before John gave it up with an irritated shake of the head. 'Any of mum's sandwiches left? I am bloody starving!'  
  
Bruce Willis killed three more people. Apparently this was a good thing. 'On the trey. And I think there's Chinese in the fridge.'  
  
'You think?'  
  
'You never leave it in the carton, I can't see through opaque plastic.'  
  
John rolled his eyes and went to inspect the contents of the fridge. 'Shall need to do the shopping soon.' He muttered.  
  
'Don't worry about that!' Sherlock chided, tugging John away from the fridge. 'Come and sit.'  
  
'Hey!' John protested, but he was grinning and he let Sherlock pull him back, one hand clutched tightly around a red, covered bowl. Probably with dumplings in. He kicked the fridge door closed and dropped into the worn, comfortable armchair by the TV. Sherlock slid in beside him, perched as much on John's lap as he was on the arm of the chair.  
  
'Ugh.' Greg pretended to gag and Sherlock flipped him the V. John chuckled and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, toppling him over so he was sprawled over John's thighs.  
  
Sherlock glared at him and adjusted himself into a more dignified position. Or, as dignified as he could manage whilst sitting on his boyfriend's lap.  
  
'John.' Greg said. 'Please tell me why I surround myself with teenagers.'  
  
'Victim of circumstance, I'm afraid.' John told him. 'I'm told we'll grow out of it. Can't say I'm in much of a hurry.'  
  
Molly snickered and threw a piece of popcorn. It bounced off of Sherlock's head and he glowered at her and threw it back.  
  
As the afternoon and the film progressed, the four of them seemed to split into two camps; John and Greg, who cheered John McClane on in all his endeavours, and Molly and Sherlock, who let them. Though, secretly and via exchanged, covert glances, they agreed they were much more in favour of Hans Gruber blowing the building to kingdom come if it would just stop all the posturing. Both on the screen and in the living room.  
  
By the end, however, Sherlock and John were spending more time exchanging lazy kisses than watching the screen, and Greg was spending most of his time heaving exaggerated sighs at Molly, which just made Sherlock add breathy sighs of his own to the mix and off-handedly flip Greg off.  
  
'Think I preferred the robot.' Greg said, ostensibly to Molly, as the credits rolled.  
  
'Oh shut up and let him have his fun.'  
  
'I didn't have half that much fun when I was his age. Mixed company, Sherlock!'  
  
'Two years, Greg.' Sherlock shot back, not bothering to stop nuzzling John's neck.  
  
John laughed, which made his beautifully defined chest move in a very pleasing way. 'No, he's right, love. We're being rude.'  
  
'Please. Molly shared in the experience of my first orgasm with you, they hardly count as "company".'  
  
There was a crash of silence, and Sherlock raised his head to take in the roomful of exceedingly uncomfortable faces. He winced.  
  
'Not good?'  
  
John sighed. 'Leaping and  _bounding_  over the line, Sherlock.'  
  
Sherlock whimpered theatrically and let his head fall forward against John's chest.  
  
'…okay.' Molly said, overly cheerful. 'And I think that's our cue to leave. Greg?'  
  
'Yeah, yeah.' Greg agreed, rising to his feet. 'Don't forget your brolly thing.'  
  
'It's a parasol, you tit!' She chided.  
  
'Oi, beautiful.' John said, jabbing a finger into Sherlock's thigh. 'Off.'  
  
'I refuse.' Sherlock grumbled.  
  
'C'mon. Get up, say good-bye properly, then I can get back to kissing you.'  
  
'Can't we skip the other bits?'  
  
John attempted a glare. It was somewhat undercut by the way his hands kept trailing up and down Sherlock's backside and thighs.  
  
'No, behave yourself.'  
  
Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes, but he slid off of John and got to his feet. Molly and Greg pulled him into what could only be described as a 'group hug', to his dismay. He didn't pull away, though.  
  
They took a moment, soaking in physical contact, and whispered promises of  _soon_  and  _I'll call you_  and the like. And when they pulled away Sherlock was left feeling cold and a little lost, until John came up behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist.  
  
'Hey, Lestrade.' John said, and Greg paused at the doorway.  
  
'Don't forget these.' John reached to the bowl beneath his military portrait and lifted out a set of keys. He tossed them to Greg, who caught them and gaped down at his hand.  
  
'Oh.'  
  
'She's all cleaned up and waiting for you at the garage.' John said, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.  
  
Greg grinned. 'You're all right, Watson.' He said, then he slipped an arm over Molly's shoulders and, with a final wave from them both, they left.  
  
'Well, she looks well.' John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's collarbone.  
  
Sherlock shrugged. 'She will be. Greg, too. Someday.'  
  
'How about you?'

  
Sherlock said nothing.

  
John sighed. 'Well, no rush. Coming to bed?'  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 'It's barely gone six.'  
  
John smirked. 'I know.'

  
'Oh. Oh!'  
  
John extended his hand. 'Well?'  
  
Sherlock stepped forward and wrapped his arms around John's waist. 'I've got nothing better to do.' He said, dropping kisses onto John's throat.  
  
'Oh, well, sweep me off my feet why don't you?'  
  
Sherlock chuckled. 'That can be arranged.'  
  
A glint came into John's eye at that. 'Oh it can, can it?' He said, and he bent his knees slightly.  
  
'Oh no. No! Don't you dare--'  
  
But with a hearty laugh, John swept Sherlock into a bridal carry and spun him in the direction of their bedroom. Sherlock pretended to struggle, just enough to make John work for his balance, then wrapped his arms around John's neck and rested his head close enough to hear John's heartbeat.  
  
The mattress gave just a little under his weight, and a bit more when John crawled over him to claim a kiss.  
  
'I love you.' Said John.  
  
'Mmm. Tell me.' Said Sherlock.  
  
John smirked. 'A lifetime.'  
  
'Yes.' Sherlock agreed as John worked the t-shirt up and off of him, leaving only the swan necklace glinting against his sternum. 'Maybe even longer.'

 


	22. Epilogue

Mycroft waded through the press of woolly jumpers and festive earrings and emerged in front of the warmly varnished record player, newly buffed to a brilliant shine. The record had accumulated a bit of dust, but he wiped it off with a delicate touch and the German title gleamed under the lamplight.  
  
Sherlock was stood by the fireplace, deep in conversation with their father. John was poking and prodding at the gifts under the tree, diligently attempting to select the one he would open that night. Both froze and lifted their heads once the needle found its groove and their song began to play.  
  
It was saccharine, yes, but Mycroft couldn't help but draw some satisfaction from the way his brother and John were so willing to let themselves be manipulated by a few melodic vibrations in the air. Not that the power was limited to just them. Mycroft watched the rest of the party guests drift out of their way without either man noticing, allowing them to meet in the centre of the room.  
  
John spoke first, taking Sherlock's hand in his. 'Are you sure? This hasn't exactly ended well for us lately.'  
  
Sherlock scoffed. 'Please. Last time you weren't even dancing with me.'  
  
'Oh, don't remind me.'  
  
'Well you know how to put it right.'  
  
'Fine, but I lead this time.'  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Oh fine.'  
  
It wasn't as elegant, with John being the shorter of the pair of them, but they made it work. The music floated through the room, and everyone paused to stare at the couple as they danced, their bodies far too close for a proper waltz, their steps careless and unerring.  
  
Harry came to stand beside him and nudged his ribs. 'About time, right?'  
  
Mycroft smiled down at her. 'Shouldn't you be out there?'  
  
Harry shrugged, but she was blushing. 'Alice doesn't dance.'  
  
Mycroft held out a hand. 'Well, I do.'  
  
~~~  
  
'Mm, we've got company.' John whispered, his eyes idly tracking the new couples joining them on the dance floor.  
  
'I hadn't noticed.' Sherlock lied.  
  
'I love you.'  
  
Sherlock sighed in mock exasperation and closed the distance between them. It ruined the line and form of their dance, but given that their teacher had been his own mother, he figured they could get away with it. He clasped John tightly to him and buried his nose in John's hair.  
  
'You open a single gift on Christmas eve.' He said softly.  
  
'Yep.' John replied.  
  
'It's…something your family has done for generations. I saw it last Christmas with Aunt Ann and Harry. It'll be part of our holidays for the rest of our lives and, I'm only just now seeing you do it.'  
  
'Sherlock,'  
  
'It seems unbalanced. Doesn't it?'  
  
John shrugged. 'I don't know. But we've been making this whole relationship thing up as we go and it's worked so far.' He paused. 'It is working, isn't it?'  
  
Sherlock didn't respond, but he held John tighter and let the music speak for him. It probably knew the answer better than he did, anyway.  
  
~~~  
  
'Ow!' John gasped as Lestrade pulled the tapes tighter around his bruised ribs. It had been a little over a year since they'd escaped the lake, and it turned out that was John's limit when it came to domestic bliss.  
  
'Yeah, well, this is the price you pay for being a complete twat.' Lestrade griped. He shook his head. 'I should have arrested you.'  
  
John winced, only partially from the pain. 'Don't tell Sherlock. Please?'  
  
Lestrade sighed. 'You shouldn't ask something like that of me. It's not fair.'  
  
John hung his head. 'I know. But…please?'  
  
Lestrade slumped in his chair. 'You can't keep doing this, John. Pub brawls are one thing, but if this thing you're doing escalates--'  
  
'There's no "thing"!' John protested. 'I just needed to let off a little steam, that's all.'  
  
'John..'  
  
'I’m fine. Really.'  
  
'Then why are you trying to hide it from him?'  
  
John sagged, defeated. 'Okay. Fair point. But what can I do? I get this sort of…aching inside and if I don't find a way of letting it out I…' He shook his head.  
  
Lestrade looked down at his hands for a moment, then said, 'Mycroft is going to South Africa next month.'  
  
John blinked. 'What?'  
  
'South Africa. He was telling me about it. Says he's looking forward to it, but his boss has some security concerns.'  
  
'I thought things were okay there?'  
  
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. 'There are  _always_  security concerns. Mycroft is getting important.'  
  
John paused. 'Wait, when were you talking to Mycroft?'  
  
Lestrade shifted. 'Not important. I'm trying to say, maybe your practically-brother-in-law could use some inconspicuous body guarding. Say a close family friend who just happens to have some military experience? Someone who already has a bit of security clearance to his name? Someone whose boyfriend is going to kill him if he comes home smelling like cheap beer and bleeding from the knuckles?'  
  
John felt something stutter in his chest, and all the air rushed out of his lungs. When he could draw in more, he said, 'Greg…you're sort of a genius.'  
  
Lestrade grinned. 'Tell that to Sherlock next time he steals my answers to the detective exam. I'll call Mycroft.'  
  
'Yeah.' John said, a bit dreamily. He was already envisioning tactical briefings, weapons training, shaking hands with Nelson Mandela…  
  
'Wait a minute.' He said. 'When did you get Mycroft's new number?'  
  
~~~  
  
A month later, Sherlock was aching. No, he was burning. No, he was vibrating at the exact resonant frequency to shatter into a million pieces.  
  
He clutched the phone in his hand, as though holding it would keep John's voice close to him. He stared at it, willing it to ring, desperate to hear John in more than memory.  
  
 _Tell me._  
  
 _Six hours, twenty-eight minutes._  
  
That had been six hours and ten minutes ago. Sherlock had only set the phone down in order to change into the new suit he and Harry had bought just for the occasion. Ten days without John had reduced him to so much jelly, and now John was nearly home, so very close to being back in his arms.  
  
Sherlock reluctantly set the phone back in its cradle and arranged himself into a just slightly provocative pose, leaning one hip against John's favourite chair. He mentally rehearsed his greeting, sarcastic without being patronising.  _I hear congratulations are in order. But I suppose saving the life of a nation's leader is just another day at the office for you now._  Flattering, but not fawning.  
  
Fifteen minutes before he was due back, John shoved open the door and strode into their flat.  
  
'Welcome back.' Sherlock forced his voice to stay level. 'I hear--mph!'  
  
John's lips crushed against his, and he found himself pinned down in John's chair with no clear memory of how he got there. He barely had a chance to take in the fresh tan on John's skin or the burnished gold of his hair before John's hands were tugging and stroking and kneading him to distraction.  
  
'Never again.' John was whispering against Sherlock's mouth. 'Never again, never again, never again.'  
  
Sherlock felt ten days of tension and longing unravel in his body, and found himself agreeing wholeheartedly. He wrapped John in his arms and clutched him close, kissing back with everything he had.  
  
'Stay.' He begged against the skin of John's jaw. 'Stay, please stay.'  
  
John whimpered and nodded, and for just a moment they could both pretend they believed it, and that John would never feel the ache inside that pulled him away from safety and toward chaos. Just for a moment.  
  
There wasn't much speaking after that. What little they did say was essentially meaningless, little more than desperate exhalations given shape, structure devoid of purpose. When they did speak again, truly spoke, it was after, the pair of them wrapped only in the sheets and the duvet, their skin still hot and damp, hair still clinging to foreheads and temples, and their hands lazily tracing patterns across sated bodies.  
  
'I meant it, you know.' John whispered into their afterglow. 'Never again. I told you, I can't do it.'  
  
'You managed.'  
  
'Hardly.' John sighed, and he rolled onto his back, tucking one hand behind his head. 'I was meant to be guarding Mycroft and instead I spent virtually every night in his suite whinging like a fucking teenager. I got fantastically drunk, a few times, and every fucking night I would look at that god damn bed and I honestly couldn't understand why it was so empty.'  
  
'You did your job, though. Mycroft came home safely and South Africa still has a president.'  
  
'Only because something in me is fundamentally fucked.' John lamented. 'When I was on the job…god, it was,' he shook his head. 'But the rest of it was torture without you.'  
  
Sherlock swallowed, his belly twisting uncomfortably. 'You could stay.'  
  
John shook his head. 'No, I couldn't. It's not who I am. I need the battlefield.'  
  
'I could give you that!' Sherlock insisted. 'Just a little time, just let me figure out where I--'  
  
'Come with me.'  
  
Sherlock stopped short and stared, incredulous, at John's vulnerable, open face.  
  
'What?'  
  
'Come with me. Next time Mycroft needs a bodyguard. He can get two for the price of one. And no one'd question him bringing his brother along. Think about it.' And John sat up, eyes alight, body almost vibrating with tentative hope. 'We could do this. Together.'  
  
Sherlock watched John's expression freeze into a sort of parody of optimism. He considered the option.  
  
'I can't just…'  
  
'Don't. Don't act like there's anything tethering you here. Apart from Lestrade and Molly all you've got are your experiments and whatever it is you and Molly muck about with in the morgue. You're just as lost in this city as I am. And it's only when I'm off from uni, so we'll be stable most of the year. We  _can_  do this, love. The two of us.'  
  
'And Mycroft.' Sherlock pointed out.  
  
'And Mycroft.' John conceded. 'Well?'  
  
'Greg's in line for a promotion. Detective Sergeant.'  
  
'So?'  
  
'Cases, John! Real ones. I could be a detective.'  
  
'You hate the police. You moan about them every time Lestrade comes over.'  
  
'Not a Met detective, a  _real_  detective. On the sidelines. Consulting, I guess.'  
  
'A consulting detective?' John scoffed. 'Never heard of it.'  
  
Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. 'Do you honestly doubt for a moment that I could invent my own profession?'  
  
John giggled. 'No, love. If anyone could.' He paused. 'But that's not right away, right? I mean, Lestrade isn't getting promoted tomorrow?'  
  
'It could take a couple of years.' Sherlock admitted.  
  
'And meanwhile…'  
  
Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and collapsed back onto his pillow, fighting back the urge to smile as John immediately moved to wrap an arm around Sherlock's waist and rest his head on Sherlock's chest. 'Fine.' He pretended to groan. 'I'll go with you to sodding Abu Dhabi or wherever my idiot brother ends up dragging us.'  
  
John grinned. 'Beautiful!' He said with an exuberant kiss to Sherlock's lips. 'You gorgeous creature. Come here.'  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, then pushed himself up and rolled them over so John was gasping beneath him and began to speak the kind of French that would render them both more or less useless for the week.  
  
~~~  
  
Sherlock felt John's arms tighten around his waist, felt the heat and the weight of John's body against his back, felt the persistent trembling between his legs, and panicked.  
  
'No.' He said. 'No. I can't. I can't do it.'  
  
'Come on, Sherlock!' John said. 'You broke into a madman's lair, you can't tell me you're too scared to do this.'  
  
Sherlock shook his head. 'No. No, I'll kill us. I can tell.'  
  
'You've ridden pillion dozens of times.' John pointed out.  
  
'I trust you.' Sherlock replied.  
  
'The physics don't change just because I'm the one using them.'  
  
'I cannot drive this motorbike, John. I am going to crash.'  
  
'Molly did just fine.' John baited him.  
  
Sherlock looked up to where Molly was turning lazy figure eights in the gravel, Greg holding loosely to her waist. When the wind was right it carried their laughter within hearing range. 'Molly doesn't understand mortality. Or aerodynamics.'  
  
'She's decided to be a pathologist.' John said, scrunching his face in confusion.  
  
'Everything okay over here?' Greg called, he and Molly coasting to a stop close by.  
  
'Sherlock wants to ride in the bitch seat all the way to Scotland.'  
  
'John!' Molly and Greg gasped in unison. It was hard to tell who looked more aghast.  
  
John snickered.  
  
Sherlock just shook his head. 'Don't. Don't bother. The damage is irreparable.' Mycroft had had some business in California a month before, and John's vocabulary still hadn't recovered from his experience with the American bar scene.  
  
Greg shook his head. 'She may not be as sexy as mine,' he said, patting the side of his gleaming BMW. 'But she's still a beautiful machine and she deserves your respect.'  
  
'Hm, if only I could get  you to talk about actual women that way.' Molly chirped.  
  
Greg was about to reply when there was a shrill ringing from his pocket. He reached down and pulled out the black mobile Sherlock preferred not to think about too intently and brought it to his ear.  
  
'Detective Sergeant Lestrade.' He said.  
  
'I don't see why we need to go to Scotland anyway.' Sherlock griped. 'It's cold.'  
  
John rolled his eyes. 'Because we're in the south of England, Sherlock. Cross-country rides tend to involve crossing the country. Hence, north.'  
  
'We could stop at the border.'  
  
John shrugged. 'Maybe I want to see the land of my people. John  _Hamish_  Watson, remember?'  
  
Sherlock sighed, and his eyes picked up on the lack of motion from the other bike. He looked up, and Greg was holding the mobile in a white-knuckle grip, eyes wide.  
  
'Mycroft?' Sherlock asked. He leaned forward too far and nearly overbalanced the bike, but John levelled them. 'Is he all right?'  
  
'I understand.' Greg said into the phone. He hung up and drew a deep breath. 'It was him, yeah.' He breathed. 'He's fine. It's, um, something's happened in New York.'  
  
'So?' Sherlock demanded. 'Something always happens in America. Besides, John's got classes, we can't leave London for months yet.'  
  
Greg shook his head. 'It's bigger than that. Mycroft says it's going to go global.' He swallowed, it looked painful. 'He says some of his bosses are talking, just theories so far, it's all so. So early.'  
  
'Greg?' John's voice had changed, slipped down an octave, softened and hardened simultaneously.  
  
'Yeah.' Greg nodded. 'Too early to say for sure, but there's a chance, yeah.'  
  
'What?' Sherlock snapped, bored already by all the political nonsense.  
  
'America are our allies, Sherlock.' Molly explained.  
  
'So?'  
  
'So Britain might go to war.' Said John.  
  
There was nothing in his voice, and when Sherlock turned to look at him his face was that of someone already making plans.  
  
'Are you going with them?' Sherlock asked too quietly, unable to look John in the eye.  
  
John said nothing, but gestured for Sherlock to get off the bike. He said nothing as they switched positions, he said nothing as they rode back to Montague Street, he said nothing as they unlocked the door to the flat, and when a few hours later he put on his jacket and left for his favourite pub, he still said nothing.  
  
And when he came home, late at night and hidden in the darkness of their bedroom, he slipped under the duvet and curled up on his side of the bed with his back to Sherlock, and said nothing for the rest of the night.  
  
~~~  
  
'Afghanistan or Iraq?' Sherlock demanded, his eyes fixed on the telly.  
  
John sighed and slipped out of his coat. 'Hello, John. So happy you're home. Fancy a cuppa? Why yes, thank you darling, that would be lovely.'  
  
Sherlock waved him off and didn't look at him. 'Yes, yes, all that. Afghanistan or Iraq?'  
  
John let out a breath and slumped heavily onto the sofa. 'Afghanistan. He didn't tell you?'  
  
Sherlock shrugged. 'I worked it out. How long?'  
  
'Six weeks.'  
  
Sherlock grimaced. 'I've got experiments on.'  
  
John swallowed past something thick in his throat. 'You don't have to come. I mean, if you'd rather-'  
  
Sherlock looked at him then, sharp and disapproving. 'Of course I'm coming! I always do. I'll talk with Molly and she can send me progress reports. It's hot there, isn't it?'  
  
'Usually. Daytime, anyway.'  
  
Sherlock looked down at his hands. 'It's different this time.'  
  
John slumped. 'Yes. Yes it is.'  
  
'It's a war. You've never gone to war.'  
  
John shook his head. 'We knew this was going to happen, Sherlock. We've known for almost three years that he'd have to go sometime.'  
  
'I'm surprised you held out this long.'  
  
'I will protect him, Sherlock. I will get all of us home safely.'  
  
Sherlock risked a glance up. 'That's not the part I worry about.'  
  
'Then what?'  
  
Sherlock fixed his eyes on the telly, a war correspondent was narrating over footage of soldiers getting into tanks.  
  
'I'm coming back to London in six weeks. You'll see to that.' Sherlock said, never once glancing in John's direction. 'Are you?'  
  
'I--'  
  
'Everything you need is right here, if you'd just  _observe_!' Sherlock despaired. 'If you'd just come with me to the yard--'  
  
'Sherlock, we have talked about this. You need your space with Greg and Molly and your work, and I need mine. It works, it keeps us sane.'  
  
'It keeps us apart!'  
  
John smiled and shook his head. 'Sherlock, a madman re-wrote the laws of nature and the universe to get between us and  _he_  couldn't keep us apart.'  
  
'That's not the same thing!'  
  
'Come on, Sherlock. You like crime scenes. Think of this war as the biggest, most complex crime scene of your life.'  
  
'I'd drink cyanide first. An idiot could see that this war is unsolvable. It has no logic, the motives are all over the place, trying to make sense of this, this circus would drive me mad.' Sherlock flounced back into the sofa and turned away in a huff.  
  
'I'm leaving in three days.' Said John. 'I would like to pack five suitcases instead of two, but it's your choice.'  
  
'I said I'd come.' Sherlock grumbled. 'I keep my word. And not all of us have the luxury of two uniforms plus mess dress.'  
  
'Mycroft isn't quite so stingy with the clothing as the British military, but point taken.'  
  
~~~  
  
Five weeks later, they sat around a small table in a posh hotel room with Mycroft, their fingers edging closer and closer together as they spoke.  
  
'We are beginning this war with nothing.' Mycroft was saying. 'Everything, every bit of infrastructure, must be built from the ground up. I do hate to say it, but we need every hand we can get.'  
  
'You mean mine.' John said.  
  
Mycroft fiddled with the handle of his umbrella, newly acquired to combat the harsh sunlight. 'Understand, John. I am saying this as a member of Her Majesty's government. Personally, I would prefer that the three of us all went home safely and together next week. But officially, I am obligated to tell you your options.'  
  
'Would he be fighting?' Sherlock demanded.  
  
'Liaising. Medical personnel are at a premium in this war. But I'd be lying if I said there was no risk of danger. Or combat.'  
  
Sherlock didn't miss the slight twitch from John at that, or the way his eyes flashed. Sherlock laced their fingers together and squeezed. 'How long?' He asked Mycroft, but his eyes were on John, who hadn't looked up from the table since they started talking.  
  
'Three months. As much as six, depending. Active duty. You would be military again, John. A full soldier.'  
  
'A captain?'  
  
Mycroft nodded. 'Yes. Like your father.'  
  
Sherlock watched John's jaw tighten, the corner of his mouth twitching. John was stroking his thumb over Sherlock's hand, but it was absent. Sherlock doubted he even noticed he was doing it.  
  
Just then, a well groomed young Afghan man in a suit poked his head into the room. 'Mr Holmes, you are needed.'  
  
Mycroft nodded. 'Yes, of course. I'll be right there.' He looked back regretfully at Sherlock and John. 'I'm afraid I must go.'  
  
They both nodded, and Mycroft stood and followed the man out of the room. Sherlock and John sat in silence for a bit, John staring down at the table and Sherlock staring at John. Then, when he couldn't bear the silence any more, Sherlock spoke.  
  
'You want to stay, don't you?'  
  
John tried to hide a wince. 'No. Of course I don't.'  
  
'Please don't lie to me.'  
  
John shook his head. 'You're leaving. You're going home in a week. I can't just--'  
  
'John.'  
  
John looked up, and Sherlock had never seen him look so lost. 'I promised you.'  
  
'I know.' Said Sherlock. He looked down at his free hand and took a deep breath. 'Greg, um. Greg sent me an e-mail yesterday. That case he's been working on, it's got complicated. If it's not closed by the time I get back he wants to bring me in on it.'  
  
'What are you saying?'  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath. 'I'm…I'm saying,' he began, faltered, and started again. 'I'm saying that Greg is moving up in the Yard, and Molly can get me into just about every corner of Bart's morgue, and I can solve this case. And the next. And…' he swallowed past the pain in his throat. 'I can…survive without you.'  
  
John seemed to collapse in on himself. He shook his head. 'No. No, Sherlock, it's too soon. It's, we need more time!'  
  
'It's been nearly a decade, John.' Sherlock told him.  
  
'But working with the police? Sherlock, it's dangerous!'  
  
'We are literally sitting in a warzone right now, John!' Sherlock snapped. 'Dangerous is what sustains us. Me as much as you.'  
  
'Not separately. Not again.' John insisted.  
  
Sherlock fisted his hand in his hair and tugged in frustration. 'For God's sake, John, stop martyring yourself for me!' He cried. 'You're a soldier. You've always been a soldier. Don't make me into the thing that holds you back.'  
  
John slumped forward and sighed, resting his head in his hands, his elbows planted on the table.  
  
'I love you.' He griped. 'I love you so fucking much.'  
  
'This isn't my world.' Sherlock told him. 'But it's always been yours.'  
  
John dropped one hand to lace his fingers with Sherlock's. 'Just…just this once, okay? And when I get back,' he swallowed. 'It's really over. The army can find itself another doctor.'  
  
Sherlock nodded, though he wasn't sure whether to believe it. He drew John's hand close and kissed it. 'I love you.'  
  
John nodded.  
  
'Come to bed?'  
  
John shook his head. 'Working. I need to get back soon.'  
  
'It can wait.' Sherlock pressed.  
  
John faced him, eyes sharp. 'No, Sherlock. It can't. I have orders.'  
  
'Right.' Said Sherlock. 'Of course. Soldier.'  
  
'Afraid so.' John managed a weak smile. He paused, gave his head a pensive tilt. 'Plenty of time for a kiss, though.'  
  
Sherlock aped a sigh. 'Oh, very well. Any requests?'  
  
'We've got another twelve minutes.' Said John. 'I'll tell you when.'  
  
~~~  
  
John met Sherlock in Berlin, three months later. They met at the airport, crashing together in an embrace so tight it hurt. But not enough. John wanted Sherlock to sink into his skin and erase the past quarter of a year from his life.  
  
'Stay.' He begged. 'Please, please stay with me.'  
  
Sherlock nodded. 'Yes. Of course. Anything.'  
  
John had been transferred to a German base hospital, they claimed to give him experience with follow-up care of his patients. John suspected Mycroft had whispered very convincingly in a few ears to help the assignment along. Sherlock was, after all, frustrated by a warzone. A European city, however, was directly up his street.  
  
John had a sort-of flat on the base, of course, but Sherlock took him straight to his hotel from the airport and pushed him down on the oversized bed.  
  
'Sherlock--' He said between fevered kisses. 'This is-- work. Not--mmm--not a honeymoon.'  
  
'Too long.' Sherlock panted against his chest. 'Far, far too long.' Not the most articulate he’d ever been, but his body was more than willing to fill in whatever gaps his words may have left. Not that either of their voices were quiet for long.  
  
It was, probably, the most verbal either of them had ever been during sex, which was saying something since Sherlock had once delivered what amounted to an entire thesis on tactile awareness and the relative acidity of human sweat while they were in bed. But both John and Sherlock refused to keep silent, pausing only to breathe as they talked about their time apart, about John's close call with an IED a month before, about Sherlock's cases and his new website. The actual sex was fairly lazy and slow, more about reconnecting than about chasing mutual ecstasy.  
  
They caught it anyway, and once the aftershocks had faded and they were once more inhabiting separate bodies, they lay in each other's arms and rediscovered each other's silence. Sherlock was the first to break it.  
  
'Is it really over?'  
  
'Three more months hospital work.' John said.  
  
Sherlock frowned. 'You know what I meant.'  
  
John slipped one arm under his head and gazed up at the ceiling. 'I hope so. Right now I feel like I never want to go back, be away from you again.' He licked his lips. 'But I've felt like that before. After getting you back, after we were finally together. Properly. I really thought it would last.'  
  
'What do you need?' Sherlock asked.  
  
John shrugged. 'Not sure. I don't know how to describe it. Just…I can't stand it when the world goes all fuzzy at the edges. I want it sharp. All the time.'  
  
Sherlock curled his fingers around John's shoulder and snuggled in as close as he could manage. 'I can do that.'  
  
John shifted his head to look at him. 'Can you?'  
  
Sherlock met his eyes squarely. 'Yes.'  
  
John believed him.  
  
~~~  
  
Sherlock and John stumbled headlong into the foyer of 221b, laughter exploding out of them.  
  
'Shush!' Sherlock gasped. 'You'll wake Mrs Hudson!'  
  
'I'm not--I'm not--' but John never got to say what he wasn't because a beat later Sherlock had him pressed against the wall and was snogging the life out of him.  
  
'That. Was brilliant.' Sherlock breathed against John's lips. John smelled of cotton, and rainwater, and sweat. Sherlock wanted to bury himself in it.  
  
'Christ, you were brilliant!' John replied. 'The dog…how did I miss the dog?'  
  
'I observe, you shoot.' Sherlock told him. 'It works.'  
  
John sighed and let his head fall against the wallpaper. 'We should go up. We've a bed up there.'  
  
'Mm, and a sofa.' Sherlock muttered against the crook of John's neck. 'And a rug…and a kitchen table…'  
  
'God I love you after a case.'  
  
'And the rest of the time?' Sherlock teased.  
  
John shrugged. 'Oh, I get by.'  
  
Sherlock shoved his shoulder, then instantly drew him close again. The swan necklace, much repaired and now with a new platinum chain, glinted in the low lamplight of the stairwell as they kissed.  
  
'We…we should go.' John managed. 'We've got to be up early, remember?'  
  
'Hm?' Sherlock's forehead wrinkled. 'Oh! Right, damn. Harry's hen do.'  
  
'Molly will kill us if we're late.'  
  
'What to plan things?'  
  
'It's a lot to plan! It's not every day your only sister marries the love of her life.'  
  
Sherlock scoffed. John rolled his eyes.  
  
'We  _like_  Clara, remember? She's a stabilising influence, she's a fantastic model for Harry's photographs, and she doesn't moan about Mycroft popping by every other afternoon to check up on things.'  
  
'It's just the hen night!' Sherlock griped. 'And you've slaughtered the mood, I hope you know that.'  
  
John smirked, yanked Sherlock closer by his collar, and crushed their lips together without mercy.  
  
When John released him, Sherlock's eyes were glazed and his mouth was slack, making his breath come out loud and puffing.  
  
'If we go upstairs right now, we'll have a solid half an hour before we need to sleep.'  
  
Sherlock gulped. 'I hope your sister appreciates the sacrifices I make for her.'  
  
John rolled his eyes, but he seized the opportunity to slap Sherlock's bum as he started to climb the stairs. 'Oh, yeah. She's in tears over it.'  
  
They fumbled their way into the flat, then into the bedroom, shedding one another's clothes along the way. When they collapsed together onto the mattress, it was frantic, messy, and quite giggly, but by the end of it they quietly curled up against each other, John pressed tightly to Sherlock's back, his hand wrapped around Sherlock's chest. Their fingers were intertwined with John's hand on top, and Sherlock's palm cupped loosely around the oval pendant around his neck.  
  
'Why aren't we married?' Sherlock asked, no inflection in his voice.  
  
'Hm?'  
  
'Harry's getting married in a week, John.' Sherlock said quietly. 'We've been together for years…why did we never get married?'  
  
John shrugged. 'Dunno. Guess…once you battle sinister forces together and conquer evil with the force of your love--'  
  
'You promised a man you'd kill him in front of a room of strangers and then followed through. That's hardly the power of love.'  
  
'Shut up I'm being fairy tale over here.' John flicked Sherlock's ear, then kissed the patch of skin behind it. 'I'm saying…marriage just kind of feels like a formality after all that. Lip service.'  
  
Sherlock considered a few dozen filthy puns he could make out of that one, but he let it go.  
  
'We could invite Greg. Molly, Mike, your friends from the army. You could wear your mess dress.'  
  
'Sherlock, I told you. I'm not a soldier anymore.'  
  
Sherlock considered that. '…you could still wear your mess dress.'  
  
'Pervert.' John teased, jabbing Sherlock in the ribs.  
  
'Ow!' Sherlock laughed. 'You're violent tonight.'  
  
John waggled his eyebrows. 'Only for an excuse to kiss it better.'  
  
Sherlock chuckled and John did just that.  
  
'Do you want to get married?' He asked.  
  
John paused in his very important medical treatment to meet Sherlock's eyes. He sat up straight and moved slightly away.

  
'You're serious about this.'  
  
Sherlock frowned and fiddled with a bit of sheet. 'I find I am.'  
  
'Because of Harry?'  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  
  
'How long have you felt this way?'  
  
Sherlock looked down at his restless hands. 'I don't know. Maybe for a long time. Harry getting married just sort of, I don't know. Gave it shape. And why wouldn't I want to boast to the world at large that I have you?'  
  
John sighed and rubbed the back of his head. 'I--I mean, I never really thought. Marriage?'  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
'Us?'  
  
Another nod, this one smaller and less sure.  
  
John crawled up the length of Sherlock's body and placed a gentle kiss against his lips.  
  
'Wha--'  
  
'I guess we did leave that part out.' John smiled a lopsided smile. 'The brave knight rescues the handsome prince, then they get married,'  
  
'And live happily ever after?' Sherlock challenged.  
  
John tugged a bit of hair. 'No! I just told you they get married you dolt!'  
  
Sherlock burst out laughing and tugged John down, causing him to overbalance and end up splayed over Sherlock's torso.  
  
'No…' John said again, once he'd caught his breath and cleared the laugh-water from his eyes. 'No, they get married, right? And then they move on to the next adventure. I mean it only makes sense you're out of sorts. We skipped a step.'  
  
'So?'  
  
'So, what?'  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'So, aren't you going to propose to me?'  
  
John looked affronted. 'Oi, you're the prince in this equation. You do the proposing.'  
  
'Only if you were a damsel. The knight should do it.'  
  
'No, no, the question's all yours.'  
  
Sherlock groaned. 'Oh, fine! We'll flip a coin.'  
  
'What? Seriously?' John grinned.  
  
'Heads, I ask you. Tails, you ask me.'  
  
'Oh fine.'  
  
Sherlock rummaged around in his bedside drawer for a 50p and balanced it on his thumb. 'Ready?'  
  
'Go for it.'  
  
Sherlock popped his thumb upward and the coin flew into the air. He caught it neatly on its way down and slapped it against the back of his wrist, but before he could peel his hand away, John's came to rest atop it.  
  
Sherlock looked up and met John's deep, open blue eyes, and John moved forward, caught Sherlock's lips in a kiss as slow and languid and unhurried as their first had been.  
  
He pulled away, leaving Sherlock breathless and slightly confused, and said, 'Yes.'  
  
They set about ensuring they would be very late indeed to Molly's planning session. At some point the coin dropped onto the floor and rolled under the bed, to be found several months later while John was doing a bit of tidying up.  
  
He never did bother to see which side was up.  
  
  
  
 **The End**

 


End file.
